


Somewhere in the Forest, This Dark Heart Beats

by IMANTSINMYEYESJOHNSON



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Demonic Possession, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Sex, Emotionally Constipated Derek, F/M, Frottage, Horror, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Judaic Folklore, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape/Non-con Elements, Scott is a Failwolf, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Slow Burn, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Stiles is Pushed Out of the Pack, Top Derek Hale/Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Unreliable Narrator, but he's trying okay, except I've taken A LOT of liberties, i decided to rewrite this if u were confused
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2018-09-20 12:33:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 48,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9491114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IMANTSINMYEYESJOHNSON/pseuds/IMANTSINMYEYESJOHNSON
Summary: Stiles has a lot of problems, but who can blame him? He's witnessed a lot. In retrospect, he's surprised he hasn't gone completely insane. Or maybe he has? Who knows anymore.He just knows that with the pack having excluded him, there's only so much he can take. Another demonic possession is no exception."So you don't have a pack? You don’t have anyone?" Derek's jaw flexes as he shakes his head. "Neither do I."





	1. Concavity

 

 

" _In the beginning there was the sun and the ice, and there was no shadow. In the end when we are done, the sun will devour itself and shadow will eat light, and there will be nothing left but the ice and the darkness._ "

 ―Ursula K. Le Guin, The Left Hand of Darkness

 

 

 

 

 

It is a dull freezing night in March and the looming silhouettes of trees remind Stiles that it's two in the morning and maybe he shouldn't be outside so late in a place that's proven to be as dangerous as Beacon Hills. He's outside regardless, searching for something to moor him to some kind of emotional stability. He doesn’t want to sleep, to be plagued with the same nightmares as every other night. He doesn't necessarily want to be awake either.

He finished his homework hours ago, his dad is on the graveyard shift, and browsing Wikipedia always throws him around in inescapable loops of supernatural articles. He hasn't spoken to the pack in weeks, nor have they attempted to contact him. An agreed partition that Stiles has taken part of because of the utter brokenness he feels when Scott looks at him because Scott hasn’t looked at him the same since Donovan. Whether or not Stiles has been forgiven, it still hangs heavily between them.

He's running out of distractions and an idle mind leads to dark, dark thoughts.

He slips into his jeep quietly; he just needs to take a drive.

He ends up on the sinuous back roads at the edge of the preserve, swirls of gritty dust being thrown up into the air behind his tires. His eyes are trained on the ashen road, pulling him deeper into the woods like something was calling to him. The radio is blaring a nostalgic song, a song he and Scott used to bounce around to, pounding their fists in the air along with the anthemic beat. Those were simpler times.

The speedometer's dial is creeping it's way past forty-five, but Stiles is too busy shouting the lyrics to notice. " _I'm not-oh-fucking-kay!_ " Stiles belts out to the tumbling cadence of drums. Gerard Way, man, he gets it.

He spares a glance at the digital clock on his dashboard and when he looks back up, he's barreling towards a man in a puffy blue coat strolling across the road. _Like it's just a jolly time of day to go out for a stroll in the middle of the god damn woods._

The whole scene feels uneasy, preternatural like it doesn't belong.

The man is tall and thin, pale as the moonlight cutting through the dark clouds past the canopy of trees. He pays no attention to Stiles' rapidly approaching headlights, nor the sound of his honking horn.

Stiles holds his breath and slams on the brakes.

He doesn't hit the brakes fast enough, the man doesn't turn in Stiles' direction, doesn't even flinch. His thoughts are running at a thousand miles per hour when his car swerves, hits a patch of ice, and skids a little too far to the left.

He closes his eyes, hears the spine tingling crack of the front end of his jeep colliding with a tree, glass shattering, metal whining under the sudden pressure.

Something hot and stiff hits his face and he immediately blacks out.

 

* * *

 

"Don't move."

Stiles smells iron and gasoline. There is a distant flickering of yellow light beyond his line of sight. His entire body aches, his face is sticky, cold, and crusted in a mixture of blood and talcum powder. Tiny shards of glass are caught between his cheek and the solid surface it lays upon, pricking at the skin with the slightest of movements. The air seems thin, hard to take in and never enough.

His eyes flicker open, the first thing he sees is the rippling fabric of a deflated airbag, the deployment powder still stirring in the air like dust. His head is pounding. Then it hits him. He crashed his jeep. He smells gasoline. He needs to _get out_.

He moves to straighten his spine, feeling the protest of his muscles, the painful grind of glass in his forehead and cheeks as he lifts his head from the steering wheel. His windshield has collapsed inward, the blue metal of the hood raised and crinkled like used wrapping paper around the trunk of the tree. The headlights are flickering pathetically, the battery fighting to stay alive. His diaphragm feels constricted, his breaths coming out in rapid shallow wheezes. And he's cold, so cold, beyond shivering. He can't feel his toes.

"I said don't move," someone grunts. A heavy hand holds him in place by the shoulder.

At first Stiles thinks this must be the stranger he swerved to avoid. He turns his head to scold the man because this is what happens when you wander around in the road in the middle of the night. Instead he is met with familiar, scintillating hazel eyes.

Uh, that's not possible.

Nope.

But his lips are the same, his voice, his frown. "I'm calling your dad," is all he says, and he stands there with his hand pressed gently into Stiles' shoulder, a spot of heat in the otherwise unforgiving temperature.

Derek doesn't leave, doesn't even move. The pain starts to fade, along with his alertness, and he idly wonders if Derek is taking his pain while the older man's voice garbles and fades away into distortion. He suddenly doesn’t have the energy to turn and watch the black varicose veins snake up Derek's forearm. He slumps back against the steering wheel and lets the darkness overtake him.

When he comes to again, it's less dark outside. The perimeter of his cloudy vision is lit up by flashing lights, a spectrum of whites, blues, and reds. He's on his back, the hard surface underneath him cold, his neck restricted in something stiff, his limbs strapped down. The twisting branches of trees above him coast sluggishly by―he is being carried. Then his hearing comes to him, along with a throbbing headache.

He hears his dad's voice, the harsh static of a radio, the distant wail of a siren, a chorus of unfamiliar voices, and the crunch and slide of the gurney being hoisted into the back of an ambulance.

Stiles wants to protest, he doesn't want to look at the bland metal ceiling of the ambulance, he wants to watch the sky.

All he gets out is, "D'rek…?"

Somewhere in the quaint suburbs of Beacon Hills, a scream can be heard cutting through the thin icy night air.

 

* * *

 

White.

Ugh, there is so much white. Sterile, blinding white and the prosaic green pattern on the blanket draped over his form.

He woke with the sensation of having slept for weeks, his eyelids heavy and his movements torpid and weak. The monotonous beeping of his heart monitor steady and slow in the background.

Stiles hates hospitals, he's spent enough time in them already. The last memory he holds of his mom is in a hospital, a room not unlike this one, too white and malodorous of medicine and ammonia.

He can hear his dad and Melissa talking outside the door to his room, washed out by the floating voices of other nurses and doctors as they rush by. He catches a few things here and there, "mild concussion," and "bruises and lacerations, a bruised lung," "but everything seems to be fine."

'Fine.' An equivocal descriptor at best.

"John, I've heard the officers talking," Melissa continues in a hushed tone, "I know things haven't been good lately, I don't know what's going on. Scott won't tell me anything, I've tried but he just gives me nothing. I don't know what happened, but your deputies are saying he did this on purpose…"

His heart rate spikes at the implication, the monitor noisily matching his pulse, and the two of them rush into the room before he can hear his father's reply.

"You're awake," his dad gushes in relief. "Do you remember how you got here? What happened?"

"John, he needs time to rest."

The sheriff huffs and sits down in the worn chair next to the hospital bed and takes his son's hand. "I'm just glad you're okay."

Melissa sits at the end of the bed with a clipboard wedged between her elbow and palm. "Stiles, honey, we're going to need to keep you for a few days. You were dinged up pretty good, you have a few cuts and bruises on your face and chest, but we need to monitor your head and lung. You have a mild concussion and a contusion on your right lung."

Stiles tries to lift himself up by his arms but is pushed back down by his father gently. There is no pain, the I.V. looping out from the veins of his hand responsible for that, no doubt.

Her eyes sadden as she watches Stiles reach up to touch the thin tubes that run into his nostrils. "It's going to be hard to breathe for a day or two, even with the intubation, try not to talk," she looks pointedly at the sheriff, "you can answer questions when the doctor clears you of any possible risk for a collapsed lung. We've given you pain medication and someone will work on lung exercises with you for the duration of your stay. We need to make sure you're getting enough oxygen and that the damaged tissue heals properly."

Lydia visits three days later, before anyone else. Stiles doesn't know why he was expecting Scott… or Derek. It hurts a hurt that the analgesic can't chase away.

Her red heels click through the doorway; she looks beautiful and repentant.

"Hi," she says softly, sitting at the edge of the bed, crossing her legs primly, "I brought you some assignments, but Mrs. Schulze said you only had to make them up if you were up to it."

Stiles opens his mouth and breathes in deeply. The wheeze in his breath is gone, but he can only take in about half the amount of air he needs still. "Thanks," he replies, voice hoarse, never rising above a whisper.

Lydia pulls a folder from her purse and places it on a nearby table. She looks quietly out the window to the bright gray sky, her long red hair hiding her face. Stiles refuses to speak first. He hasn't heard a word from any of them in over a month. He bites his lip and waits for her to break the silence. She knows better than to press him.

He wants the hurting to stop, worse than the ache already in his chest from the crash. It was easy being in a hospital room, alone. He could pretend life ceased to exist outside those four white walls.

"We miss you," Lydia declares finally, with a soft smile. Stiles says nothing. It hurts to speak. "Everyone's worried. Especially, Scott and Malia, they wanted to come and visit."

"Then why didn't they?" he manages, fixing a glare at her.

She turns to look at him then, her green eyes taking in his form cursorily before focusing her eyes somewhere else. "Scott thinks it's best we keep our distance."

Stiles closes his eyes struggling to take a deep, calming breath, a monumentally difficult task.

Of course Scott does.

" _I don't like what this is turning you into,_ " Scott had said, " _Being around the pack is dangerous, to begin with. And it's changing you. It's better for everybody if we just… didn't talk anymore._ "

"Just tell me," she whispers, "are the rumors true? Did you really… did you really try to kill yourself?"

Lydia still can't look at his eyes, but he won't drop his gaze, not until she meets it or leaves. He is nothing if not stubborn.

That hadn't been his intention, but no one is putting it past him apparently. He keeps his breathing steady, clenches his jaw and can't stand to look at the pretty girl he used to be so enamored with anymore. They don't deserve an answer, and if they care, let them wither over it. He never said he wasn't petty.

Just in time, Melissa rounds the doorway. "Lydia, Stiles still needs to rest, it's probably best you went home."

She nods and is out of the room in a blink.

"I don't know what's going on between you and Scott," she says in the wake of privacy, replacing the bag on the I.V. stand, "but I can talk to him if you want."

"No, it's fine," he bites off the matter with a tight smile.

Stiles feels the overwhelming urge to cry then. If Melissa notices, she says nothing, leaving the room for Stiles empty and safe.

 

* * *

 

"Okay, so first of all, what in God's name were you doing out so late on a school night?"

_I took a drive to clear my head. I couldn't sleep._

Stiles had been given a little white board and dry erase marker. His doctor had deemed it safe to talk, but it was still painful to breathe on his own after a few hours and not being able to articulate his thoughts was beginning to become torturous.

Two minutes into his visit and his dad already looks exasperated. "You wanted to clear your head. Stiles, we found you at three in the _morning_. What the hell did you have to clear out of your head that late at night? You should have been in bed."

_I know._

His dad looks up to the ceiling and sighs deeply, leaning back in his chair. "Just tell me what happened. Is this another… weird wolf thing?"

_No. I was out driving and someone walked out into the road. I swerved and hit a tree. Then someone found me. That's all I remember._

"Stiles, no one was on the road that night. Derek found you. He said he heard the crash and went out to investigate. He never mentioned anyone else."

"Dad, I swear," Stiles chokes out, leaning forward, ignoring the ghostly ache in his lung.

His dad shakes his head and rubs his thumb and middle finger into his eyelids. "Describe him," he says with tired surrender and Stiles does. As he lists the stranger's physical traits off to his father, he realizes that his dad doesn't believe him.

The next day Derek visits.

The looming man knocks twice on the threshold to his room. Tomorrow is the last day Stiles has to spend in the hospital and he wonders why Derek took so long to visit if he was even going to visit at all.

"Hey," Stiles says, his voice is still weak, but growing stronger by the day.

Derek nods curtly, inching in to stand broodingly by the end of the bed. Had it been anyone else, Stiles would have found it unsettling.

"So you're back in Beacon Hills," Stiles broaches, sitting up to take in the dyspeptic expression Derek always seems to wear. The man looks a little worse for wear, beard unkempt, hair dirty, eyes sunken and tired. "When's the last time you slept?"

"Last night," Derek answers succinctly. Stiles sighs―oh it's good to sigh―and rolls his eyes.

"Are you going to tell me why you're back in Beacon Hills?"

Derek stares out the large window, nostrils flaring, jaw set tight like it's painful for him to be standing in the same room as Stiles. That just does wonders for his blossoming self-esteem.

"Braeden was shot by a hunter. I didn't have anywhere else to go."

Stiles' eyebrows draw together. "Why don't you go to Cora or Peter?"

"Cora is somewhere in South America, I don't know where, and I'm better off without Peter."

Well, that last part is definitely true.

"So you don't have a pack? You don’t have anyone?"

Derek's jaw flexes as he shakes his head.

Stiles sinks into the bed, blankets and sheets cocooning him like they might soak up some of his loneliness. It's not so lonely anymore with Derek around.

"Neither do I."

They don't say much after that and Derek tarries around the room a little after visiting hours end until a nurse politely asks him to leave.

The last day Stiles spends in the hospital, he spends talking with doctors about the coming week and a half he's going to spend at home and on medication. Then they talk about going back to school, how he's not going to be able to play lacrosse for the rest of his high school career. It's a bittersweet thing. If he was going to spend it sitting on the side watching Liam and Scott play, their eyes always fixated somewhere else, it's probably for the best. He doesn't know how long he could have taken that.

Then, with impartial eyes, he recommends to Stiles' dad that he see a psychiatrist. Stiles knows what everyone's thinking.

When his doctor leaves the room to write a prescription, he and his dad share a look.

The sheriff calls Deaton.

"Dad, I don't need a psychiatrist. We already have enough bills to pay. I'm fine."

He shushes Stiles with a wave. "My son really needs to see someone, but obviously he can’t go to normal therapy. They'd think he was insane."

"I think I might know someone," Deaton says over the line.

 

* * *

 

Psychiatrists are bullshit. That's not in any way shape or form a revelation, Stiles could have told you that long before he was forced to endure an hour and a half session of Dr. Gallagher's monotonous and slightly patronizing voice. Stiles has listed 32 things he'd rather be doing right now, and he's on his 33rd when he starts imagining carving one of Gallagher's African tribal statues into a shiv just so he can stab himself with it. Being impaled seems more enticing at this point.

There are bookshelves lining the peach colored walls. Many of the books titles are in different languages, Stiles recognizes a few to be Latin. Different statues and carvings are placed around the office. The room radiates an aura of pretentiousness and forged placidity. Dr. Gallagher sits behind his oak desk comfortably in a padded office chair, looking at Stiles blankly.

They've been sitting in silence for five minutes.

"Have you ever been to a therapist before?" he asks when Stiles' eyes shift to him a few times uncomfortably.

"After my mom died, yeah."

"I'm sorry to hear that Stiles. When did she die?"

"When I was ten."

He hums, supporting his chin with the palm of his hand. Stiles narrows his eyes minutely at him. They talk about small things for a while, Stiles assumes it's so he can pull bits and pieces from Stiles' dialogue to paint an imprecise picture of his life.

Dr. Gallagher is a tall man, his complexion rosy and his hair white and thinning. He looks how a doctor should look, dressed in suit and tie, thick glasses set heavily on the bridge of his nose, frame healthy. His face is never expressive and that unnerves Stiles.

"So why are you here?" he finally asks, staring intently at his patient.

"My dad thinks I tried to kill myself."

"Did you?"

"No."

"So, then why would he think that?"

"I don't know, I…" this is exactly the conversation he'd been trying to avoid. "Things have been weird lately."

"Weird how?"

Stiles opens his mouth but finds that the words crumple together like an accordion in his throat. It's not painful to talk anymore, but the subject is painful to talk about. He feels a burning sensation in his chest rise like boiling water when he tries.

"Remember Stiles, you don't have to talk if you find it too strenuous. Try to think about it clearly."

The bright side of going to a psychiatrist recommended by an ally of the supernatural is that they won't be any ordinary psychiatrist. Dr. Gallagher had described himself as a supernatural empath, explained it with a reassuring professionalism that made his dad look hopeful for the first time in a while. He said he wasn't telepathic but could feel what others were feeling, understand the root of the problem. Stiles doesn't really need to say anything. He's asked a question, which he then contemplates and Dr. Gallagher absorbs it, but Stiles doesn't really ever need a reason to talk―he just does.

Except now, which explains more than anything he ever could say.

  1. Survivors Guilt



He thinks back to sophomore year when he'd dragged Scott out into the woods in the middle of the night to look for a dead girl, against his father's orders. How he'd abandoned Scott to lie his way out of another predicament and how it resulted in his best friend getting bitten by a feral werewolf. Since the beginning, he's been the catalyst for the supernatural happenings in Beacon Hills. He is the catalyst for his high school career being bathed in blood and carnage. He dragged everyone else into it, too.

He was surprised that Scott had forgiven him for that. Had forgiven him for killing Allison, even if he was under the subjugation of a trickster spirit; he wasn't strong enough to keep the darkness out. Scott had run out of forgiveness when Stiles killed Donovan. Scott had assured him that they'd worked it out, that Stiles was forgiven, and then there was nothing but radio static between them.

Plans fell through time and time again, not just with Scott, but with the whole pack. Acknowledgements in the hall went from smiles and nods to careful glances and blatant avoidance. Malia had broken up with him, not that that mattered much. The relationship had begun to feel forced and uncomfortable. It was the loneliness, the isolation from his friends that wore down on him until Stiles had confronted Scott and it all came to a screeching halt.

A hideous weight settles in the pit of Stiles' stomach. He breathes shallowly and says, "Scott said he didn't want me around anymore."

Dr. Gallagher's lips twitch down. He almost looks sad before he composes himself again. "Because of Donovan."

Stiles nods. "More than that, too, I think. He said it would be better for everyone if I stayed away from the pack. He's just tired of the mess I leave behind because I'm human and can't protect myself like they can. I'm deadweight."

"And you think that because…?"

"Because it's true."

Dr. Gallagher pushes his full rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose and takes a glance at the clipboard in front of him.

"Your father told me your behavior has shifted these past few weeks. Is it because Scott pushed you away?"

     2.Anxiety

Stiles' sleeping patterns had drastically shifted. Nightmares became commonplace, he'd come to expect waking up alone in his bed, drenched in sweat and trembling. He sees the faces of friends and strangers flash in front of his eyes, the deaths that he's responsible for play out foggy and disjointed as if he were watching it on a mutoscope. Sometimes when he looks in the mirror, all he sees is a murderer. Weary eyes, messy dark hair, pale skin. He's lost weight, he sees it in the shadows beginning to cast under his cheekbones and jawline. Sometimes he can't recognize himself. The weight of it is crippling. Even after being ostracized from the pack, he still finds himself worrying about the next death, the next life to be taken.

He's exhausted most days and even on his Ritalin he still finds his leg bouncing nervously, his fingers tapping at his thigh. At school he suffers attacks, specifically when he's faced with seeing a pack member turn in the opposite direction to avoid him. His throat constricts, his breathing shallows, his vision blurs, and he ends up in a bathroom stall pulling at his hair and fighting back tears. He tries to tell himself that it doesn't matter, he has his dad, he has a future, but that's the thing about anxiety. Logic is benighted by the worst of thoughts.

     3.Depression

Along with Stiles' sleeping pattern in disarray, he finds getting out of bed an arduous task. It's a sluggishness akin to walking through wet cement. Despite not having had any fatal intentions the night he crashed his jeep, thoughts of death creep around him every now and then like a restless shadow. Wishing it'd taken him instead of Allison, instead of his mom…

He's probably not the only one. Scott showed how little he cared when he'd heard that Stiles might've tried to end his life and yet he still hadn't visited. If that doesn't mark the death of a friendship, Stiles has no idea what does.

"So, what happened the night you crashed your car?"

Stiles explains, verbally, recounting the strange man walking through the woods. It's refreshing to see a pair of eyes that aren't distrustful as he describes the encounter. The pull he felt going into the forest and the foggy recollections of Derek finding him and being taken to the hospital. Listening to himself, he understands why it might be hard to believe. His story lacks explanations and any detailed information, and yet Dr. Gallagher nods his head like he understands completely.

"Stiles," Dr. Gallagher says with a sigh, running his fingers through his short white hair, "I don't believe this is anything more than a case of PTSD."

Well, duh.

"Not that this should be taken lightly. I'm going to schedule you for another appointment, and I'm going to prescribe you Lexapro for your anxiety and depression, it shouldn't interfere with any of the other medications you'll be taking but in case you feel anything strange like nausea, migraines, blacking out, anything at all I want you to call me immediately. It's possible some symptoms may be caused by your concussion but better safe than sorry. This by far isn't the end of your treatment you're going… to… need…"

Time steers off for a moment. Stiles stares at the way his fingers splayed out on the red canvas fabric of the couch. He wonders if life will be better on two different types of behavioral medication; maybe this will finally fix him.

"Stiles, pay attention."

"Right, Sorry."

"I'll let the Sheriff know you're not intentionally putting yourself in harm's way, but I am going to make sure you continue your sessions here. I think you really need them."

Stiles is given a little yellow prescription and is waved goodbye.

Outside, parked on the curb is not the police cruiser he'd expected, but a sleek black Camaro with the broadly shouldered owner leaning up against it. He feels his right eye twitch, bites back a frustrated scream.

Derek is looking at him with his eyebrows raised expectantly while Stiles looks around for an out. He doesn't have the emotional stamina for anything Derek related right now; he feels raw like a fresh wound, his psychiatrist having poked and prodded at it with professional curiosity. He will walk home if he has to.

Stiles takes a step down from the entrance and walks past the car in brooding silence.

"Stiles," Derek says flatly.

He focuses on the way the cool early spring breeze hits his cheeks and tries not to think about what _this_ might imply.

"Stiles, come back!" By now, he's hearing the hard grind of Derek's sneakers against the pavement stomping after him. "You know you can't outrun me, so just come back here!"

"Leave me alone," Stiles whines, voice cracking on the last word.

This isn't _fair_. Nothing about this is fair.

It's not fair of Stiles to push Derek away, but it's not _fucking fair_ that Derek picks now of all times to re-enter Beacon Hills, and subsequently his life. Now of all times.

Before Derek had left, Stiles had thought that maybe they had been dancing around each other. Derek had stopped shoving him into any hard surface available, and threatening him with bodily harm. Towards the end they were on speaking terms, they felt like a team. He'd even managed to make Derek laugh a few times, a Herculean task to anyone. Stiles had refused to acknowledge that his feelings were anything beyond being on the cusp of a crush.

He knew the truth, though.

And then Malia happened.

The worst part of it all is that Derek acts completely oblivious. Even if it is for propriety's sake(like Derek has ever given two shits about propriety), the stiff glances and curt statements are equivalent pulling teeth. There's no way Derek can't hear the acrobats his heart performs whenever he says something even remotely sweet, or comes close to smiling, or leans in close to Stiles. There is no way Derek can't smell the attraction.

"Stiles, I know you don't like me, but right now I couldn't give a shit. You have five seconds before-"

Stiles whirls on him with a wild-eyed glare. "Oh my god, fine!" he shouts, throwing his arms up in the air. "What are you even doing here?"

Derek twists up in a grimace, his eyebrows lacing together in that deep frown he wears so well, but is otherwise unreadable. He crosses his arms over his chest making his leather jacket squeal.

"Your dad asked me to bring you home."

"Oh."

"Yeah." The awkward silence shared between them is not lost in the cold March air. "Can you just get in the car?"

Sullenly, Stiles concedes, shrinking down in the passenger seat, unsure of what to do with himself then. On the ride home, he just stares out the window, wishing the leather interior would swallow him whole so there was nothing left. When Derek parks in Stiles' driveway, seeing a complete absence of cars, he practically leaps out of the Camaro and strides through the front door, but before he can shut and lock the door behind him, Derek's hand is pushing the door back and waltzing in like he owns the place.

Uh, no.

Stiles' eyes bug out of his head as he stares, incredulous. "Shouldn't you be getting back to an abandoned mill or something?" He doesn't miss the way Derek's lips quirk up, almost into a smile, and snorts. "What, squatting in places of urban decay feel too much like poverty to you? If you want to crash at someone's place you'd have better luck with Scott."

"I haven't seen Scott since Mexico."

"Why not? You don't have a pack and Scott would definitely take you in."

Derek follows Stiles into the kitchen, hovering in the doorway as Stiles slams around the cupboards looking for the cereal he'd bought the other day. Annoyingly, it is nowhere to be found.

"However he got to be Alpha, Scott is still irresponsible."

Stiles throws his head back and heaves a put upon sigh, making a mental note to chastise his dad for eating one of the few foods he can actually stomach lately. "So, what, you'd rather tut around Hell Mouth Central without the protection of a pack? _Now that's responsible._ "

Derek's expression is dark as he watches Stiles bend down to rummage through the fridge. "He pushed you out of the pack."

Stiles freezes, his jaw clenching as a breath leaves his nose involuntarily. It hurts so much more to hear it so bluntly, hanging in the air as a reminder of how inadequate he is. Derek seems to notice, his face softening when Stiles stands back up to scowl at the werewolf.

"What the hell are you even doing here, huh?"

"I told you, because your father asked me to look after you while he's at work."

"Yeah, and since when have you given a shit about me or what my dad wants?"

The softness is gone in an instant, a flash of offense briefly in place before his eyebrows tumble downwards in an angry grimace. "Since I found you out cold in your crumpled up Jeep in the freezing dead of night."

Stiles honestly can't think of a reply to that. It's true, Derek could have left him there to die, but he hadn’t. He'd stayed with a warm hand on his shoulder and a steady calming voice, leeching his pain.

"Your lips were blue when I found you. Did you know that? And you were barely breathing. The paramedics called it hypoxia. Can you even imagine how terrified your father was when I called him? You don't know what it's like to lose your entire family."

Derek had won that argument.

The crushing guilt he feels at the thought of leaving his father alone leaves his chest feeling concave for the rest of the night.

 

* * *

 

"Hey, Tom!" a man yells, hands covered in earth has he investigates the small bottle he'd found among the wreckage.

"What?" Tom yells back. Tom, short and robust, has just finished rigging the blue jeep up to the back of the tow truck. His partner Steve is among the saplings, picking up the scraps of metal left behind from the accident.

"I think I found something." Steve holds up the little orange prescription pill bottle for Tom to examine. It's half full, its contents little white circles rattling together when he shakes the container. The label states Oxycodone, the name on it: Robert Webb.

"What was that kid's name again?" Tom asks with a scratch to his temple.

"It was Sheriff Stilinski's kid."

"Well, Sheriff Stilinski's kid sure ain't named Webb. Think we should give 'em a call?"

Steve nods with a shrug, muttering quietly about how "kids these days can’t go a day sober."

Sheriff Stilinski picks up on the third ring.

"Hello?"

"Hello, sheriff," Tom greets politely, "we found somethin' at the sight of the crash you might wanna' come take a look at when you have the time." The little orange pill bottle rattles as he rolls it around in his fingers, cellphone pressed to his ear.


	2. Insidious

“Like the brief doomed flare of exploding suns that registers dimly on blind men's eyes, the beginning of the horror passed almost unnoticed; in the shriek of what followed, in fact, was forgotten and perhaps not connected to the horror at all.”

 

― William Peter Blatty, _The Exorcist_

 

 

 

 

 

Lydia sucks in a ragged breath through her nose, her left eye twitches, her jaw sets.

"No. That is an awful plan. We need more information before we go gallivanting off into the woods looking for a body." Scott had called a pack meeting following Lydia's unanticipated banshee scream the night of Stiles' crash. This is the first pack meeting they've had in a while. Lydia frowns at the thought; the word pack doesn't feel right on her tongue. They're missing something, but no one is willing to acknowledge the Stiles shaped cavity. Now their dilapidated pack feels more like a void than a family. "We don't even know if it's in the woods, it could be anywhere."

Malia looks painfully uninterested, picking at the dirt under her fingernails and she leans back into the McCalls' couch.

Scott huffs. "Aren't you supposed to be drawn to the scene of death? Why isn't that happening?"

Before the scream, there were whispers. A thunderous cloud of whispers humming together like the wind before a storm, a multitude of dialects weaving together into a ghastly tornado of fear. It had paralyzed her, and then...

"I don't know. This is why we need more information before we make any serious plans," Lydia laments, resting her brow in her palm.

 After the whispers, a pregnant silence. Something was blocking her connection, a ringing sound, musical and constant like the resonance of a tuning fork, clear and ominous. She could even hear it now still, underneath the beating thrum of reality.

"I say we wait until somebody else finds it. I mean, some random jogger is bound to right?" Liam supplies.

Scott makes a whine of protest. "We can't just sit here!"  
"Scott, how do we know that this body even exists? It could be nothing right?" Kira touches Scott's arm, calming the Alpha. "We could be blowing this out of proportion."

"It's not nothing," Lydia says, "something's up, I can feel it. Something is blocking my senses, we just don't know what. I've been looking in the bestiary for anything resembling this sort of thing and I've come up short."

"So what the hell are we supposed to do?" Malia presses, her hands twitch in her lap.

"We wait."

 

* * *

 

According to Stiles' research, or more accurately titled "google-fu", with the exception of lucid dreaming, a person is not aware they are dreaming while in the process of one. The prefrontal cortex, the portion of the brain responsible for logic and planning, is less active when the brain in REM sleep. This may also be the reason for the omnipresent feeling of being removed or dissociated from oneself, as well as a general preternatural atmosphere to dreams.

So why does Stiles feel like he's dreaming now…

He has ten fingers and he thinks he has ten toes, but he isn't going to take off his chucks to check. After all, he's in the middle of the dark forest, alone.

He can't exactly manipulate his surroundings. Even if he squeezes his eyes shut and concentrates real hard visualizing the tree in front of him turning into a bucket of curly fries, it's still a tree when he opens them back up. So this isn't a lucid dream.

There is no sense of direction. Every third tree looks the same, and every rock and root are fuzzy and indiscernible from the other. No sense of time either, only the present. An inescapable loop of _now, now, now._ He can come up with faces but Stiles can't assign names to them, places have no events and events have no meaning. How did… how did he get here?

Stiles stumbles around in between the saplings, falling against tree trunks as if he were drunk, disoriented and lost in the abyss of night.

There is a silence that is deafening, built out of what it is lacking. The crunching of solid earth underneath Stiles' feet, the susurrus of empty tree branches swaying above him, his breath. All of this is absent. The forest is dead tonight and something is very wrong. The air feels cold, stark, and hollow.

Then something drags him forward. A feeling draws him an inch forward on his toes, like an invisible cord attached to his chest pulled taut, akin to the night of the crash when something had called him to the woods. He doesn't remember though, he tries, but the more he concentrates the more the memory blurs like a distant dream. Instead, he is only left with a strong sense of déjà vu.

He is what a moth is to an invisible flame.

So he lets it pull him and he walks forward on steadier feet with an overwhelming sense of curiosity. As he walks deeper and deeper into the woods, trees become more distinguishable, time begins to move again. He can't quite put names to faces yet, but he knows his dad has blue eyes. _He knows._

He figures if he follows whatever it is that pulls him, he will gather more information.

Soon he's able to estimate that he's been walking for an hour. Maybe. He thinks.

And then he sees it. The flame that had sent out its silent call.

A dark contour on the forest floor. It's barely visible on the fermented leaves and cold hard earth dusked by shadows. Another step closer, his eyes focusing in on the little clearing, and there is a form. Two arms, two legs, a head and a chest. The limbs are wildly placed as if the body had fallen there out of the sky.

Stiles' heart seizes as he jolts upwards.

His sweat-slick hands run over the warmth of his soft blue sheets, his fingers grasping at the cool fabric for something real, something to anchor him. His walls are white, his desk is cluttered with books and binders, his window is ajar―which would explain the uncomfortable draft chilling the droplets of sweat on his skin. He doesn't remember opening it, but he can't be bothered to get up to close it.

Stiles calms his shallow breaths back to normal. It’s just another nightmare.

Above him the faint sound of nails scratching against plywood whirrs through the night.

 

* * *

 

"Stiles, what-" John begins to demand, bursting into Stiles' room to find him standing in the middle of the room staring up at the ceiling expressionless. He's cut short by the sheer oddity of it. "What are you doing?"

"Rats."

"What?"

"I think we have rats," Stiles says, finally turning away from the ceiling to look at his father.

John frowns. _Rats?_ "Why do you think that?"

Stiles points to the ceiling. "I've been hearing scratching and, like, tapping. I think we have rats."

"I'll take a look in the attic before I head out for my shift," the sheriff says, then shoves a little orange bottle into his son's palms. "Tell me what this is."

Stiles' fingers curl around the container as he looks up at his dad, befuddled. His laptop was still on his bed from when he was making up missed schoolwork when he'd gotten distracted by the growing rappings on the wall. "Uh… one of my prescriptions?"

His father breathes deeply, the air shaking out of his weathered lips. He pinches the bridge of his nose, his face no less flushed than when he'd barged in.

"Guess again."

Stiles looks down at the bottle then. It is large and unfamiliar in his hand. The label has a name other than his on it. Robert Webb.

"This isn't mine," he says dumbly, moving to hand the bottle back to his father, only to have it shoved back into his chest.

"Yes, I know that." His tone leaves Stiles wondering: _what'd I do now?_

Stiles sits down on the edge of his bed in preparation for a scolding. This is probably going to take a while.

Stiles opens his mouth, struggling to reply. "Okay, so… why are you upset?"

"Why am I upset." It's not a question, but an exasperation. The man stares blankly at his son, lips thinned, the vein in his neck is bulging. "Why don't you tell me why the towing crew found someone else's Oxycodone at the scene of the crash."

"I… oxy-who-what-now?" He examines the label on the bottle more closely. Oxycodone: .5 mg, taken once a day orally. "I don't even recognize the name… I'm sorry, I have no idea how this got there. Unless…"

"Unless?"

"Unless it was that guy's. The guy I told you I saw in the woods."

" _Stiles,_ " his father warns tiredly, "I don't-"

"No, dad, just listen to me okay?" Stiles rushes. The blanket has crumpled at his feet and the laptop on his lap has fallen backward with his flailing. "There really was a man out there, and I really did swerve to avoid him! This is literally solid proof. If you still don't believe me, look up his name in the police records or something. I bet he matches the description I gave you."

He sighs but seems to accept it. Stiles counts it as a win.

The man stands, snatching the pill bottle from Stiles' grip and points at him. "I will find out who this Robert Webb is, but if I find out you've been taking drugs, we are going to have words."

Stiles is left alone when he plops down on the edge of his mattress again, watching his dad leave, mouth hanging open at the empty doorway. After a few silent moments to recollect himself, he rearranges his homework set up. He flips over his laptop, fingers scuttling around under the sheets for his pen. His homework is gone.

"Are you kidding me?" he mumbles, sitting up to toss around his bedding. It had been sitting right there on his keyboard half completed. "Where…"

Off to the right, out of the corner of his eye, he sees the white sheet of paper sat slanted on the middle of his desk. He stalks up to it with a huff, grabbing it roughly and returning to sit back on his bed.

_It was right next to him._

He must be going insane.

 

* * *

 

Bad things happen to good people. The world punishes the few people with spectacular talents, leaving the rest ignorant of the beauty they can accomplish. The universe is cruel, it's intentions groundless and actions unforgiving, killing indiscriminately. Stuck on a planet spinning a thousand miles per hour around the sun, maybe there is no reason for anything, maybe we're all just particles floating around through space.

Bad things happen just as often as good things―if you're lucky. It's stupid to believe in some rosy, naïve, grand scheme. People die every day. Good people.

These philosophies haven't made Derek any less bitter about the losses he's faced.

His family didn't deserve to suffer the consequences of his mistakes and Stiles doesn't deserve to suffer the consequences of everyone else's. He should have known better than to leave. Scott was bold and determined, but reckless and slow to make decisions. He lacked guidance and Derek should have been there to provide it, not that Scott would have listened anyway. It's only been a year and the pack is in tatters.

Derek lays face down on the floor in the unfurnished living room of his old loft. There is a thick coat of dust on nearly every flat surface, reminding him of the time he'd spent away from Beacon Hills. His nose and forehead are pressed into the cold hardwood floors, there is no heating, he hasn't bothered to worry about trivial things like heat yet.

Instead, he pictures sun-sweet golden eyes and how empty they'd looked in the hospital. How lonely he'd smelled, the bitter scent so pungent it soaked through the acerbic stench of hospital: sickness, medicine, and cleaning chemicals. Sometimes Derek wishes he could take emotional pain as well as physical, maybe Stiles would be better off.

A year ago Stiles had risked his life to go save _him_ , traveled into a foreign country, with a newly bitten werewolf. Now he's alone, and so is Derek.

Derek's phone buzzes crudely next to his ear. He growls, rolling onto his back to reach for it, not checking the contact as he swipes to accept and holds it to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Derek?" the sheriff asks, unsure. There's an airy shuffle of papers, voices filling up the background like music. The station is a constant bustling place, no matter what hour.

"You called me," Derek answers gruffly.

John pays no mind. "Ah, yeah. Look, Derek, I know we haven't always been on the best of terms." As in, he used to consider Derek as a fugitive murderer. "Do you think you could do me a favor? Well, really, Stiles? I would ask Scott, but I'm not sure Stiles would appreciate that."

"Depends on the favor," Derek says as if Derek wouldn't already do anything for Stiles if he'd just ask.

John makes a bleak noise on the other end of the line. "You hadn't mentioned anyone else being there with you at the crash. Stiles said there was a man on the road when he'd crashed and I need to know if he's telling the truth. Do you think you could go back out there and see if you can find anything?"

It's a stretch. It's been a week since, the jeep towed off the road, what pieces hadn't been collected we're buried in soil and tree trunk. John's lucky it's been a dry winter, no rain to wash away lingering scents.

"Yeah, I can take a look. What exactly am I looking for?"

"Stiles didn't give me much other than a tall man in a blue coat. You'd probably be better off asking him for more details."

"That's it?"

"'Fraid so. We did find a bottle of Oxycodone out by the scene, we think his name might be Robert Webb. I'm working on bringing up what I can on him but it's not a high priority case so it'll take some time."

 

* * *

 

Stiles turns his head to the sound of his window sliding open. Before he can catch a glance at the powerful calves sliding over the sill he's got a face full of sweat-shirt.

" _Derek!_ What the fuck is wrong with you?" Yelping, he grabs the oversized sweatshirt and pulls it away from his face.

"Put it on, we're going out."

"Okay, _first of all,_ I have my own sweatshirts, so don't throw your dirty laundry in my face. Second, why can't you use the front door like a normal person? I mean, seriously." Stiles throws the sweatshirt back towards the wolf, but he dodges it with ease.

"I like my entrances to be dramatic."

" _Ha-ha_ ," Stiles mocks sarcastically. "Where are we going?"

"To the crash."

Stiles waves his arms up in the air bewilderedly. "The crash? Why?"

"Just put on a coat, we're leaving now," Derek grunts, shoving past Stiles and stalking towards the door.

Stiles glares at the threshold with resentment. "' _Would you like to hang out with me today Stiles?' Oh, that sounds nice Derek, where are we going? 'Oh, the creepy back woods where all the creepy-crawlies are!' Oh, why are we going there? 'Oh I can't tell you because I'm a barbaric asshole!'_ " Stiles violently throws a coat over his flannel and huffs.

"I can hear you," Derek calls from down the hall.

"Good!"

Derek parks his precious Camaro on the side of the road a few meters from where Stiles had crashed. Without a word he slides out from the driver's seat, eyes scanning the area with acute awareness. Stiles slams the passenger side door as hard as he can and rolls his eyes as the man strides forward silently, investigating a piece of metal bumper lodged in a tree trunk.

"Uh, hello? Are you going tell me why you dragged me out here, Sherlock?"

Derek's eyebrows draw downwards in contemplation and Stiles should _not_ be finding that as cute as he does. "I spoke to the sheriff on the phone. He said you saw a man out here, and that's what caused you to crash. He asked me to see if I could find anything."

 _Woah._ Stiles wasn't expecting that. He sways back in astonishment. "Was he a werewolf do you think?"

"No," Derek responds with a shake of his head, "just a favor. He thinks you were lying about it."

"Wow. When did you get so magnanimous?"

Derek's returning grin is caustic. "Anything for you."

Stiles' jaw sets tense.

Derek returns to his examination of the woods, a ghost of the wreck, only fragments and tire marks left behind to prove its existence. He runs his fingers over the cold gray pavement, crouches in the rotting leaves of the chilled earth. Suddenly, as if hearing a gun go off, Derek's head bolts upwards. His hazel eyes track an invisible path into the stark, leaden woodlands of the preserve.

Stiles isn't an idiot, far from it. The moment he sees Derek's attention focus on a path his stomach sinks because he knows this is the beginning of another supernatural disaster in his hometown. He just doesn't know what it is, or how to proceed without Scott and his pack. He's alone this time for real.

Derek nods his head towards the other side of the road to follow. It is the same direction as the man who'd walked across the road the night he'd crashed his jeep.

Old dead leaves crack and split under their feet as they trek into the woods. An oppressive chill hangs in the air and has Stiles rubbing his biceps through his coat and muttering under his breath as he follows Derek through an unmarked path.

"You catch a scent, Sparky?"

Derek grunts his affirmation. Stiles hums.

"What does it smell like?"

Derek's expression melts into a disquieting bleakness as he turns to face Stiles.

"Self-loathing," Derek murmurs, "and death." He looks grave.

Stiles watches him turn back to his trail, watches the way his broad shoulders move under his leather jacket, the way his thick inky hair is just a little too grown out. "So where are we going? Cool secret werewolf hangout? Is it The Slaughtered Lamb?" He's too distracted by the thickly furred jawline to realize when Derek had stopped. He runs into his muscled arm full force held out to halt him and it knocks the air out of his chest. " _Agh!_ Dude what the-?!"

Stiles blanches.

In a small clearing, a flash of blue stands out prominently against the dull grays and browns of the winter forest ground. It's him, the man from the crash.

He's sprawled out on the ground like he'd fallen from the sky and landed there, just like in his dream. His skin is sickly and colorless, hollowed and wrinkled from past bloating. The stench is horrendous, the fowl too sweet odor of decomposition creeping through the air like a thick fog.

"Oh my god."

But most shocking of all is the small silver pistol locked into his dirty, rigor mortis hardened fingers with the barrel pressed to his temple and a splatter of dark congealed blood on the other side of his head.

Derek turns to him with a blank expression. "Is that the guy?"

Stiles nods mouth agape, never taking his eyes off the corpse.

Stiles has seen a lot of corpses by now, too many for a seventeen-year-old. Death bothers him in the way that death bothers all living creatures with a primal instinct to live, but this one rings something inside of him. It's _off._ Like last night's nightmare.

Derek huffs and stalks over to the body, bending over to rummage through the pockets of his blue coat, and then his jeans.

"Derek?! What the hell are you doing?!" Stiles gawks, then presses a palm over his face to muffle the nauseating smell of rotting flesh.

He stands up to reveal the man's wallet, flipping it open to read out the man's driver's license. "Robert Webb. Twenty-four. Lives at fifty-two Nightingale Lane, Oakdale California," he reads aloud.

" _Lived,_ " Stiles corrects.

Derek flashes him an exasperated raise of the eyebrows and fishes his phone from his pocket to call the sheriff.

Stiles tilts his head back and watches the sky thaw from ash gray to black as the veiled sun creeps its way past the horizon. The view of the leafless canopy above is better than examining a half-rotten corpse.

When he hears Derek's voice fade off he asks, "What now?"

"You go home."

"What? Seriously? That's it? Why did you even drag me out here, dude?" Derek stalks back over to where Stiles has frozen and grips his shoulders to swivel him and march in the opposite direction of the body. Stiles tamps down the fervent flutter of butterfly wings in his stomach at the force of hands, prays his heart doesn't stutter. "Woah! Hey, hands!"

"Not your dude."

"Whatever, you don't have to manhandle me asshole." Stiles shoves him off and Derek goes willingly with a scowl, choosing instead to walk behind the teen with a few feet between them.

When they reach the Camaro it's nearly dark and Stiles watches the sirens pass them on the road speeding in the opposite direction, undoubtedly his dad and a forensics team on their way to clean up the scene.

Stiles' car door clicks as he opens and closes it after Derek's parked in the driveway in place where the cruiser should be. Creepily, when Stiles enters his house, closing the front door with a deep sigh of relief in the comforting silence of his living room, he turns around and― _bam._ Derek is standing behind him with his arms crossed and a pensive expression drawn on his face.

"Oh, Jesus fuck!" Stiles shouts, jumping up like a frightened cat and thrashing against the door. "Derek, how do you _do that?_ "

Derek shrugs, looking amused. "Do what?"

" _That!_ "

Stiles sighs, rubbing a hand down his face with a groan and strides past Derek towards the stairs. The heavy footsteps behind him make his heart flutter and he suddenly feels sick. "What are you doing?" he asks, whipping around to glare at the man.

Derek just narrows his eyes, expression always stoic.

"You know what? I'll tell you what you were doing since you're pretty much incapable of speaking in full sentences. You were leaving. You were going to turn around and walk out that front door and drive away and leave me alone because I have had one mindfuck of a day and I am about _three seconds_ away from exploding. " Stiles jabs a stiff finger into his shoulder pushing him back and Derek lets the sudden force guide him.

The man winces and opens his mouth, but quickly closes it with a click and clenches his jaw before finally speaking in a rough voice. "The sheriff probably wants to ask me some questions anyway."

"Yeah, you go do that."

Stiles turns around and marches up the stairs towards his room. He doesn’t turn back when the front door slams so hard it nearly shakes the foundation of the house apart.

 

* * *

 

 

The air became murky as the sky deepened into a dark nautical blue as night fell.

Derek had followed the trail back to the scene of death where they'd found Webb. Men in blue plastic suits examined the decaying body, swabbed and photographed. John was standing off to the side observing, his expression pensive.

"Sheriff," Derek greets with a nod as he stops next to him.

"Oh, hi Derek. I wanted to thank you for doing this, I honestly wasn't expecting to actually find anything and now, well…" He shrugs. "Well, now there's a body. _Another one._ It'd be nice to go a month without finding one, but I guess that's asking too much. At least this isn't one of those weird end of the world things you kids seem to get into every other week. Just a run of the mill suicide."

Derek nods, scratching at the scraggly hairs on his chin.

"I hope."

Derek almost smiles at that. _Almost_.

"So listen," John says, throwing his thumb over his shoulder back towards the road, "I'm gonna' head back to the station. Run a few profiles on this guy, contact the family and all that, so I should get going. It looks like it's going to be a long night." He throws out his hand for a shake and Derek tentatively takes it.

"Is there anything else I can do?"

The harsh sound of the body bag's zipper sliding through metal teeth cuts through the night.

John shakes his head, a little baffled. "No, but thanks again."

 

* * *

 

 

Malia and Lydia sit at the ornate kitchen table in the Martin's dining room studying, or more accurately, Lydia is tutoring Malia in math.

"This isn't hard, I promise you," Lydia gripes, the palm of her hand supporting her head's weight against the table.

Malia rolls her eyes exaggeratedly. "Maybe not for you. Look, maybe it's just the way you're teaching me. Stiles would always reward me with something if I got something right."

Lydia isn't paying attention anymore. Her eyes trained on the front door mysteriously. She frowns. "Hold on, let me get that," she mumbles, pushing her chair back to stand up.

"Get what?"

"The door." Lydia's voice sounds distant, lost.

Malia had heard nothing, nor can she pick up any perceptible sound at the front door. Wary, she follows Lydia to her front door and stands behind her, listening intently. She peeks around Lydia's shoulder, shrouded in shiny red hair, to see… nothing. Just the contrast of dust particles floating underneath the porch light against the black of night, but Lydia's eyes are trained on something that seems very real to her. Malia feels a chill go up her spine and her hairs stand on end.

To Lydia, a tall man in a blue coat is standing on her front porch looking down at her urgently. He remains stock still and silent as if something had bound him so.

Lydia lets out a long sigh and smiles as if it were painful to do so, cocking out a hip against the doorframe. "What can I do for you, sir?"

Malia narrows her eyes at her. "Um… who?"

The man remains grave, simply shaking his head in reply. He closes his eyes tightly, before returning his gaze back to her. What once were shallow blue eyes, are now clouded with gray decay, his skin ghostly white. He turns his head to the side where she can see the coagulated blood and residual brain matter caked in his thick dark hair. She gasps.

"Who did that to you?"

He stretches his jaw in an attempt to speak, but his lips remain firmly shut, stretching and contorting the skin on his face. He shakes his head vigorously, eyes wide and terrified. He turns to spare a meaningful glance to her Toyota.

Without another word Lydia turns to grab her purse from the dining room table, Malia watching curiously as she moves determinedly. The man is gone when she reaches the threshold, and Malia scrambles after to follow, having forgotten the were-coyote altogether.

Lydia turns out of her driveway with a screech, Malia watching her curiously as her eyes go vacant. She pulls off to the side of the road when they are deep in the preserve. There's scrap metal embedded in a tree on the opposite side of the road and the air smells faintly of Stiles and Derek.

With the car still running, headlights illuminating the bare trees, she opens the door to her car and stands at the edge of the forest staring. Malia is close behind, a silent observer.

From far off into the woods, Lydia spots a flash of white, almost a face. And then another, and another, until finally, out from behind a tree a tall woman with the same cloudy dead eyes steps out. Her hair is long, dark, and slicked back into a ponytail, her clothes ripped, her body bruised and beaten. Most strikingly, there is a purple bruise straight across her neck, as if she'd been hanged. Her mouth is sealed shut, just like the man on Lydia's doorstep, but she turns and beckons her to follow with imploring eyes and a curling finger.

Lydia follows.

"Oh, hey, wait! Wait, Lydia!" Malia calls after her, stumbling through the sapling to catch up. "Are you having one of your psycho banshee things?"

Lydia doesn't reply. As far as Lydia is concerned, there is no Malia, only the forest and the white specters beginning to materialize, staring at her with dead, despondent eyes from the darkness.

There are so many, hundreds even, each tree having a new pair of purple-ish silver eyes peering out at her, following her like an old haunted painting. So she follows whoever is leading her deeper into the woods; Malia following half shifted when she catches the soft scent of death that had been there earlier.

Lydia sees the woman stop just before a clearing, staring into the small opening of trees where the leaves look like they'd been rustled and upturned. She glances towards Lydia, and back to the clearing. The other white specters won't step out from behind the abundance of trees either.

Lydia puts one heeled foot out and slowly walks to the center of the clearing, vaguely smelling the putrid stench of death that has Malia's face curling in disgust.

A voiceless whisper curdles the air in an unfamiliar dialect. The words make her nauseous.

_Hirik vet shuruk khaf lahmed khaf'ayin het_

"Suicide," she breathes, and her knees give out.

 

* * *

 

The rapping, it's started again.

Stiles rolls over in bed and faces the ceiling groaning, eyes rolling so far back into his head it borders on painful.

His dad had promised that there were no rats, but here he is, lying in bed listening to their annoying scampering across the ceiling, scratching at the walls.

" _'No rats'_ he said, _'There would be rat poop if they were in the walls'_ he said," Stiles grumbles rolling out of bed in his flannel pajamas and T-shirt. The light of a waxing moon cascades in through the open window, which he doesn't remember opening. At least it's not windy out. A loud thump evokes a jump. "Fucking rats."

With much disdain, he wills himself out of bed to shut the window and grab his baseball bat.

He inches out into the dark hallway with his eyes trained on the ceiling, waiting for the silence to be interrupted by another cacophony of bangs and scratches.

Nothing. Of course, there's nothing when he's searching for it.

It's like the little shits _know_.

He taps the wall with his bat hard enough to scare away any rodents scampering around in the walls near his bedroom. Waiting for another sound, his eyes flicker down the stairs where a soft yellow glow encroaches on the wall and into the hallway.

Befuddled, he frowns, inching down the stairs with his bat in both hands ready to swing. Stiles doesn't want to assume his dad just left the kitchen light on before his shift because in Beacon Hills assumptions can get you killed.

The air grows colder with every step he takes down the stairs. By the time he reaches the bottom of the staircase, his skin burns, muscles aching to shiver, his breath leaves him in visible white puffs of mist. It should be impossible the way he's traveled ten feet and the temperature has dropped thirty degrees. But hey, werewolves.

A putrid stench of rotting flesh assaults him as he enters the threshold to his kitchen. He gags and quickly moves to cover his face with his shirt. It's the same too-sweet stench of Webb's body in the woods.

Anticipation constricts his lungs, his skin itches with curiosity and fear. Stiles knows this part. This is the part where the music picks up speed into a climax, the part in the horror movie just before the big reveal and there's a masked maniac waiting behind the counter with a butcher knife. But there's no one. The kitchen is bright and empty.

Like a weight had been lifted from his chest, he flips the light switch after much deliberation and turns to head back to his bedroom. As he's just about to round the corner when he hears it. A low serpentine hiss crawls through the wintery air. His entire body seems to ossify then, freezing in the threshold like he'd been dipped in wet cement and dried there.

This is why it's always best to leave the light on.

Cautiously, he follows the sound that seems to reverberate through the house. He shivers violently, the icy cold beginning to stab at his skin.

Stiles finds himself at the bottom of the staircase, eyes sliding up until they land on a dainty silhouette on the top step. Her posture is rigid, hand gripping the rail tightly. Her face is masked by the umbra cast by the glow of the moonlight behind her, leaving her only identifiable by her shape, which is vaguely familiar.

Trepidation radiates off him in waves.

She hisses again, low and soft. He can feel his throat tighten.

When she sees that he's frozen still, she takes a step down, a ray of moonlight from the window dances across her face to reveal one dead eye. Those once chocolate brown―now cloudy―eyes, sharp cheekbones, dimples… it's _Allison_.

Another step down and Stiles is bolting for the kitchen, lunging for the biggest, most menacing knife he can wrap his fingers around. He holds the butcher knife up with one hand in front of him shakily, the bat still in the other, hearing the creaky footsteps near until he sees her round the kitchen threshold.

If there's one thing Stiles knows about nighttime intruders that are supposed to be dead, it's that they probably want to kill him.

Her expression doesn't waiver; her stare settled far off into the distance she glides around the island counter towards him.

For a moment, Stiles doesn't know if he can kill Allison again, but this doesn't look like her. Doesn't act like her.

So he darts to the other end, back towards the staircase, and turns only to hurl the knife at her. And he does _not_ miss. Amazingly. However, the blade slices right through her as if she were made of mist to lodge itself in the wall behind her. Allison remains unscathed.

Okay, plan B, call his big scary wolfy ex-friends. Had his jeep been available, he would have made a break for it.

Stiles rushes up the stairs and slams his bedroom door behind him, barricading it with his dresser. He crouches down in the corner farthest from the door, bat in front of him, as if that will make much of a difference. Gripping the phone in his hand, he calls the one person that will always show up when it comes down to it.

The line rings once.

Twice.

Three times.

He can hear Allison's footsteps outside his door now.

"Hello?" a raspy voice answers.

"Oh, Scott! Thank god!"

"Stiles?"

"Yes!! Listen, something is in my house. It looks like―," he can't get the words out of his mouth, he can't say it, not to Scott, "I think it wants to kill me. Just, please. _Hurry_."

"Stiles, wha-" Scott's tired voice is cut off. The dial tone has nothing more to add.

An ominous scrape echoes sharply off the corners of the room to see the dresser he'd blocked the door with inching to the side on its own. _Great,_ add telekinesis to the growing list of _nope_ this thing seems to possess. He flails, fighting for the panic threatening to render him useless and dials the only other person he can think of: Derek.

He answers on the first ring.

"Stiles? What's wrong?"

"How'd you know something was wrong?" Stiles asks breathlessly with a humorless laugh. With every inch the dresser moves, the closer he feels to his impending doom.

" _Stiles_ ," Derek challenges, all growly and werewolfy.

"Okay, okay. Something is in my house, it's got me cornered in my room. I think it wants to kill me. You know, typical Saturday night fun in Beacon Hills."

"I can be there in five minutes," Derek says, "stay put," and hangs up.

Stiles heaves in and out shakily. "Yeah, that won't be a problem when I'm a corpse!"

It doesn't take long for the dresser to have fully moved back into its original place. He sits there, just breathing, staring at the closed door with trembling dread knotting his stomach, making his nerves go haywire.

Stiles has faced bigger, badder, scarier things in this past year _alone._ He doesn't know why the ghost of his ex-best friend's ex-girlfriend is so terrifying, but it is. Maybe because it seems like such a perfect fate for him, to drown him in his guilt and then finally kill him. Or maybe because it doesn't feel like her, not really. Allison with her sweet dimpled smiles and buoyant, trusting disposition could never feel like this. She feels planted, something more insidious, like a warning. _Like poison._

The doorknob turns slowly, almost teasingly, and she slides in with grace.

His breathing picks up as she nears, grips the baseball bat out in front of him threateningly. She stops, barely a foot away from where he cowers in the corner. She bends over so her pale face is all that is in his line of sight.

 _This is it,_ he thinks, _this is how I die._

She smiles, an impossibly huge, menacing Cheshire grin, her eyes glowing a pale silver. He curls into a ball, his heart beating furiously in his chest. He's sure he's about to die, and the crushing vulnerability that comes with that has him breathing in short, ineffective bursts, yet he can't seem to feel sorry for himself. Maybe this is what he deserves.

" _L'appel du vide_ ," she whispers in a voice that is strikingly not Allison's. The Parisian accent is thick like honey, timbre rough like salt.

He swallows down a gulp of freezing cold air, closing his eyes and preparing for death when just then there is a crashing sound downstairs, the sound of someone bulldozing through the front door. Stiles doesn't even want to imagine what his dad's reaction will be to _that._ Shouting fills the halls and it takes a moment for Stiles to look up from where he's coiled up to protect his vitals. Allison is gone, in place Scott and Kira are standing tall over him, looking around the room frantic and confused.

"Oh my god, you came!"

Scott looks at him, half bewildered half annoyed, a nostalgic expression that makes Stiles' heart clench. "Of course we came? You said something was trying to kill you." Kira's looking around the room confused, hand hovering over her katana handle. Scott narrows his eyes at him. "There's nothing here."

"There was," Stiles answers, being pulled up to his feet by Kira's hand. Scott shoots him a doubtful glance. "There was!"

"I don't smell anything… or hear anything," Scott mumbles, raking a hand through his cropped dark hair. Kira unsheathes her katana regardless and leaves Stiles' room to investigate the rest of the house.

"Dude, she was just…" Stiles trails off, realizing his mistake.

"Who?"

_Fuck._

"I…"

Scott tenses, sighing loudly. "Stiles, did you just call me to get me to come over? I already told you, you're not part of the pack anymore."

For a moment, Stiles stands still, stunned by Scott's paroxysm. "Scott, _I swear-_ " For the first time in a while, Stiles watches his eyes flare red for a brief second before he's chasing after the alpha down the stairs. "Scott!"

Kira jumps around the corner, baffled by the scene. Scott doesn't give her time to ask, just grabs her by the arm and starts towards the front door, but is blocked by a 170-pound werewolf glaring daggers at him in the threshold. Derek's hazel eyes ignite into blue, his claws extending while he growls at the Alpha. Scott crouches and mirrors him, eyes glowing red.

"Is this why you called me Stiles?" Derek asks through a mouth full of fangs.

Stiles jumps in between them; he's already had enough to explain to his dad, he doesn't want to add coming home to a wrecked living room to the list. "No. Scott was just leaving. Right?"

It's a moment before either of them moves, but after a moment Scott straightens, shifting back into his human form before giving a curt nod. It's not lost on Stiles the way Scott avoids his eyes as he makes his way around Derek, Kira shortly behind him, without another word.

Derek's eyes lock on Stiles, face in its last stages of healing, still chipped and torn, pale with fear and gloom.

Stiles doesn't notice; his head hanging low, shoulders slumped, panting while a panic attack begins to grip him. He had been prepared to die barely a few minutes ago, now after Scott had blatantly rejected him, he just feels like he's breaking.

"Hey… are you okay?" Derek softly calls, like he's afraid he'll scare Stiles away like a wild animal.

"Yeah. I'm fine." His wobbly voice gives him away and swiftly turns away from the werewolf to scrub at his cheeks.

Just like the night of the crash, he feels a warm heavy hand come down onto his shoulder. It doesn't leach away the pain because this isn't a pain werewolf powers can take, but that doesn't make it feel any less visceral, and it doesn't make the hand any less comforting.

Then he feels himself being pulled against something firm and hot. He lets Derek ensnare him against his chest. It's the first time he's been this close to Derek without fear for his bodily autonomy and… it's nice. The hug only lasts a few seconds before Derek's pulling him back to an arm's length by his shoulders and patient eyes settle upon his face.

"I don't smell anything, but I can take a look around if you want?" Derek asks, hands still clasped to his shoulders radiating warmth.

Stiles nods.

Derek stalks around the house, bearing taught and apprehensive, always ready for attack. Stiles slumps back upstairs, eyes flicking curiously to the dresser where it had always been, then to the corner, where his baseball bat should have been dropped. It's absent.

He remembers leaving it there when Scott and Kira had shown up; dropping it when he'd chased Scott down the stairs. It's not under his bed, the desk… nowhere.

"Stiles."

" _Jesus!_ " Stiles jumps, slapping a hand over his heart as his attention snaps away from his investigations towards the doorway where Derek looms. The bastard has the nerve to snort.

"There's nothing here, are you sure you saw something?" The werewolf leans against the doorway.

"What do you mean 'am I sure?' Of course, I'm sure!" It's then he notices the air temperature, unmistakably warm and exactly the temperature the thermostat had been set at, the ghostly chill absent.

"What did you see?" Stiles' silence is purposeful and telling. Derek raises his eyebrows and sighs, making his way into the room. "You should get some sleep."

"What if it comes back?"

"I'll stay. If it comes back it'll have me to deal with," Derek says gravely, eyes sparking blue in the dark of the room.

The statement washes a strong wave of relief over him, and he feels the adrenaline drain out of him until he feels empty and heavy with exhaustion. "Okay," he breathes, falling into bed, sinking into the comforter and answering a very persistent call to sleep. He doesn't bother to check if Derek actually stays, too tired to open his eyes.

Derek does.

A few hours later, just before the sun rises when astronomical dawn is set deep into the sky, Derek crawls in next to Stiles. He tiredly settles down on top of the bedding, subsequently passing out next to the teen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeyyyy so... I took so long to update because I quit my job because it was so stressful my hair was literally falling out. So. Yeah. Adult life no fun. Sorrrrry  
> ANYWAYS  
> I have to update my other fic because WOOH is that overdue but I AM ON IT.  
> Thank you SO much to everyone who gave kudos and commented. It honestly makes writing so much better <3 ah


	3. The Howling Heart of Darkness

"In keeping silent about evil, in burying it so deep within us that no sign of it appears on the surface, we are implanting it, and it will rise up a thousand fold in the future." ― Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, _The Gulag Archipelago_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Support her head!" Scott shouts at Malia as she carries Lydia through the clinic's door bridal style. The waiting room is veiled in shadows as night seeps in through the display windows, casting everything a deep blue.

Deaton rounds the corner and grimly opens the gate for the pack to enter, eyes glued to Lydia's unresponsive state. Her entire body is lax in Malia's arms, aside from her neck which has craned back sharply, strained so painfully her veins tick with every unintelligible whisper that leaves her lipstick smeared lips.

"She's been stuck like this for almost an hour now," Malia informs him, ever since Malia pried Lydia's shaking fingers from scribbling urgently in the forest floor, whispering fervently.

_"Lydia?" Malia queried cautiously._

_On all fours, covered in dirt and sweat, Lydia whispered nonsense. Her wide eyes focused straightforward as she dug her manicured nail into the hard soil and wrote with lightning speed._

_Malia's eyes flickered down to the swirling scribbles in the dirt._

_"Can you… hear me?"_

_No response._

_"I swear to god if you wake up and try to kill me…" Malia grumbled before slinging the girl into her arms to carry her back to the car. She went completely slack in her arms, like a ragdoll, everywhere except for the neck up._

Malia lays her down on the cold metal examination table. The way her neck strains causes her shoulders to lift off the table a few inches, her head titled back as she stares at the ceiling. A non-stop string of indecipherable words and sounds flow out of her like water. Her round green eyes, unblinking, stay locked on an invisible abyss set in front of her; they'd gone extinct like ghosts fading at the break of dawn.

They all stare at her, awestruck for a few moments before Liam rudely slices through the quiet.

"Guys this is super creepy."

Kira nods her agreement.

Scott's hands feel ice cold as he looks down at the banshee. "What is she saying?"

Deaton gathers supplies to check her vitals. Surprisingly, they're stable. "I… don't know."

"Sounds like nonsense to me," Malia mumbles.

"It's not nonsense," replies Deaton, shaking his head softly. "It's got cadence. It's definitely a language. If I had to guess I'd say she was speaking in Hebrew." He shines a flashlight in her eyes, watches how her pupils don't dilate.

"Do you know what's wrong with her?" Scott asks, silently wishing Stiles were there. If anyone could figure this out, it would be Stiles.

Deaton evades the question with another question, directed toward Malia.

"What was she doing before this happened?"

Malia nibbles at her nails and frowns, slumping against the edge of the counter. "Um… she was helping me with my homework, and then… then she said she had to answer the door. But there was no one there, but she acted like there was. It looked like she was speaking to someone."

"What did she say?"

"I don't remember."

"Then what happened?"

"Well, she just left. I followed her into her car and she drove into the preserve. She just parked there, got out, and started walking into the woods. She didn't answer me, or look at me, it was like I wasn't even there. Then she stopped and just stood there for a few seconds before whispering something, and then she just dropped to her knees mumbling and scratching at the dirt."

"Do you remember what she said?"

Malia opens her mouth to answer but closes it as she looks around at her pack as they listen intently. Her eyes eventually fall on Lydia. "I… think she said, _'suicide'_ "

Deaton looks down at Lydia, eyes full of curiosity.

"I'm afraid I can't help you this time, but I have a friend, a rabbi, who owes me a few favors. He lives about an hour from here. I'll give him a call, see if he can decipher what she's saying."

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles startles out of another nightmare when he wakes. Another dream of aimlessly stumbling through the woods, searching for a mystery, just like all the others.

He gulps in oxygen shakily willing his body to relax out of its tense adrenaline induced state it's been in since last night.

_Last night._

He looks around the room quickly, head swiveling like a sparrow. Derek is gone. His baseball bat is under his bed right where it should be. His dresser looks as if it hadn't moved an inch. It's as if he'd dreamed it all. Maybe he did. He must've.

Blearily, he trots downstairs in his pajamas in search of breakfast. It looks like it could be spring outside. The downstairs area is filled with light; effulgence streams in through the windows causing everything to glow golden and dreamy. It takes a moment for Stiles' eyes to adjust and sees his father in uniform, sitting at the kitchen table eating a bowl of plain cheerios.

The front door doesn't have a single scratch on it.

"What's up kiddo? You look tired," his father observes.

Stiles shrugs and meanders over to the counter to pour himself a bowl of cereal. Sitting down at the table across from his father, he spends his time whirling his spoon in the soft almond milk instead of eating it.

"You're heading to work already? Didn't you just get home?"

"Son, it's one in the afternoon. I've been home for hours," the sheriff explains, eyeing Stiles with concern, "and you've been asleep through nearly all of it. I was wondering if you were going to wake up before I left for my shift or not."

Stiles frowns down at his bowl.

"Why didn't you wake me up?"

"I figured you needed the rest," he says, and spoons in another mouthful of healthy cereal and manages to suppress a grimace. He's probably trying to picture bacon and eggs instead. Stiles appreciates the gesture. "Have you been having nightmares again?"

_Had they ever stopped?_

Stiles reluctantly lifts a small spoonful of cereal to his mouth when his father glances to the bowl meaningfully, sliding it over to share.

Stiles straightens up, opens his mouth to answer but an idea forces different words from his mouth.

"You know that guy Derek and I found in the woods? Robert?"

"Yes… why…?" he asks, sounding less and less pleased with how his morning is unfolding.

"Could you do a little digging? Nothing major, just family, criminal records, basic background check stuff you know?"

" _Stiles,_ " his father intones warningly.

"I'm only asking you because I know you don’t want me digging but if you don't do it, I will. It'll look a lot better if the sheriff gets a hunch and not his crazy delinquent kid," Stiles insists. "C'mon. Please?"

"Is there something going on that I should know about?"

Stiles thins his lips and clicks his jaw, trying to find the right words to describe it without sounding _completely insane._

"No. I just… I just have this feeling that it wasn't just a suicide, you know? It's not like I'm asking for you to order and autopsy or anything, just, paperwork. Don't you think it's weird that he shows up out of nowhere just to kill himself? I just have to know."

"Stiles, people run away all the time, and it's not uncommon that it ends this way. People leave, feel like they can't go home… it's sad but it's true. Besides, Derek agreed with me that there is nothing-"

"I don't care what Derek said! Let's look at the statistics. How many times have I been right in comparison to Derek? Like, probably more than 70%."

Stiles knows what he's saying is untrue, but they're said nonetheless, and they seem to do the job because John's expression falls into submission.

"Alright, Stiles. If it's really that important to you I'll see what I can find." He stands up to drain the remaining milk in his bowl down the sink and wiggles his belt to straighten his uniform. "I'll tell you if I find anything. Remember tomorrow you have an appointment with Dr. Gallagher and you can pick up your jeep in the morning. Are you ready for school on Monday? All your homework done?"

Stiles nods. It's not like he's had much else going on what with not having friends now and all.

The sheriff waves his goodbyes, sliding out the front door.

Stiles scratches at the nearly healed cuts on his face, the bruises yellow and faded.

 

* * *

 

 

"Man, we're lucky this happened on a weekend because my parents will murder me if I skip any more school this semester," Liam admits from down in the corner where he's sat cross-legged. He looks like most bored sixteen-year-olds do, with a hint of unease.

Malia grimaces from where she's leaned up against the examining table where Lydia lies. "Timing? Seriously? Lydia is talking in some weird ancient language, probably predicting our gruesome deaths and you're worried about when this shit show started."

"Excuse me for still having responsibilities outside of this fucked up Narnia we seem to be trapped in. Since when did you give a shit about Lydia, anyways?"

"Guys," Scott interrupts, pinning them both down with a piercing look, "if Deaton comes back with the rabbi, and they see us fighting like this, how's that gonna' look?"

Silence settles over them, still charged, and Scott glances towards Malia with his eyebrows quirked up.

"What?" she asks with a defiant shrug, "I'm not apologizing."

"Neither am I," an insolent voice supplies from down in its corner.

Kira heaves in a long sigh that makes even her seem annoyed, and Kira is never annoyed. Quickly, the aura vanishes when she looks worriedly around the room, eyes landing on Lydia.

Then the front door chimes and everyone anxiously straightens, Liam stumbling to get a better look as Deaton enters the room with a stranger in black, his dark beard neatly trimmed.

"Everyone, this is Levi Fischer," Deaton announces.

"You can call me Levi, though," he says with a warm smile.

"You look… younger than I expected," Scott says holding his hand out for a shake. The man looks no older than his early thirties,

Levi laughs, returning the gesture firmly. "Well, I found the fountain of youth a couple of years back in Namibia. Does wonders for the skin."

Scotts jaw drops and the sound of something clattering to the floor echoes out from where Kira stands.

"Joke. That was a joke."

Scott hiccoughs a short, unbelieving laugh. "Right."

"Why aren't you wearing one of those hat things?" Malia asks.

" _Malia!_ "

Levi laughs again. "I'm from a less orthodox sect. I don't wear religious attire unless at the synagogue." He sets the backpack down on the counter and claps his hands together. "Right, so, I'm guessing that's Lydia on the table."

Scott makes a noise of affirmation as he steps to the side so Levi can move closer.

Nothing has changed; her shoulders and neck still in a taught arch, eyes wide and focused upward, lips moving against a low whisper.

"What is she saying?"

Levi examines her closely before tilting his head and leaning over Lydia's still form, his ear just a few inches from her lips. The pack waits in tense silence for explanation. "Deaton was right, she's definitely speaking in Hebrew. It's hard to distinguish, sounds like some sort of warning."

Malia scoffs. "Great, of course it is. It's always a warning."

"Can someone bring me a pen and paper?" Deaton quickly places a pen and a small open notebook on the table. "Thank you."

Levi's hand is quick and decisive, and everyone watches as he writes right to left in the beautiful scripture. After a few minutes, Levi stops and stands straight to read the text he'd just written, considerably paler. His expression dims. He reaches up to twirl a mustache hair anxiously, unaware of the audience on the edge of their seats patiently waiting for his next move.

Finally, he asks, "Has she spoken Hebrew before?"

Malia rolls her eyes. "It's Lydia, who knows. She probably speaks every language known to man."

Kira steps in as Scott glares at Malia. "I don't think Lydia's Jewish and they don't teach Hebrew at Beacon Hills. She doesn't really have a reason to learn it."

They turn to Scott, who shrugs. "I've never heard her speak it."

Levi looks at the girl contemplatively. "She speaks it perfectly. You said she was a banshee, correct?"

Deaton nods.

Levi pauses, licking his lips and twisting the small silver band on his ring finger. "I don't believe that Lydia is… Lydia currently. I've never encountered anything quite like this before. It's like someone is trying to speak through her."

"Well, what is she saying?"

"It's not… all… translatable believe it or not, but it's along the lines of 'Beware the serpent, it lives in the sunless place of souls and consumes misery.'"

Liam crosses his arms and takes a step back. "That's comforting."

"Have any of you tried to make contact with her?"

"Obviously," Malia jabs.

"Not Lydia," Levi corrects, "whoever is using her to communicate."

Malia falters and shakes her head, along with the rest of the room. Deaton stands at the back watching curiously. Scott's stomach twists unpleasantly when he realizes he's never seen his boss look so fascinated before, especially since Levi seems so completely unsettled.

The rabbi releases a shaking breath like he'd been holding it for minutes and addresses Lydia cautiously.

"Who are you?"

Lydia's back bows high off the table in response and her lips separate to gasp for breath. The whole room jumps as she scrabbles at the edge of the table panting, eyes rolling up inside her head. She grabs at Levi's wrist with one hand and holds him still in a painful grip; the whites of her bloodshot eyes face him.

"We are the howling heart of darkness," she answers, voice completely her own.

Levi freezes. "We? How many of you are there?"

"Hundreds."

"Why are you here? Why are you using Lydia?"

Lydia whimpers breathily. "You know why we are here. He is here. We must warn you."

"Who's here?" Scott asks, stepping up to the banshee on the other side of the table.

Her head whips around to face him with terror in her vacant eyes. "He is here," she croaks. "He will take him. He will use him. The Grand Tormentor. All of you will die."

"Tell us where he is," Scott insists.

Instead, she rips the pen Levi clutches in his hand away to write vigorously on the pad of paper below his notes. Her eyes never leave Scott's face.

Deaton watches the group stare at the list with a blank expression. Her scribbling quickly trails off the edge of the page, the pen leaving small scratch marks into the metal of the table. She doesn't seem to notice.

Levi slips the notepad away from Lydia under his fingertips and adjusts his glasses as his eyes swipe left to right across the page.

"It's a list of names."

"Can I see?" Scott reaches over and takes the pad, glancing over to Lydia who's still trapped in a fit of writing. "Robert Webb, Mary Piper, Mitchell Irving, Sydney Kavanaugh, Soledad Vega… I've never heard of any of these people."

"I think they're the howlers," Levi explains.

"What are howlers?"

The rabbi takes a deep breath. "I remember, when I was a child, hearing a folktale about a snake. In Judaism, we have these demons that are part serpent, they're called Shedim. This snake would possess people, seeking out the bitter and lonely, and force them to commit unspeakable crimes until the victim had nothing left. It's goal was to drive their victim to commit suicide of their own volition, and would move on to find its next victim. A formidable creature of misery and deceit, hence the name: The Grand Tormentor.

"Howlers are the ghosts that it leaves behind. Legend says that he sows their mouths shut with the thread of guilt to silence their howls of grief, so they don't warn of his presence. All of this fits together. They can't speak, so they use a banshee's body to warn us. It makes sense… I just… never dreamed that an old story like this could be true. Have there been any suicides in Beacon Hills recently?"

Lydia gasps awake before anyone can answer; the pen hits the floor with a click. She sits up frantically, looking around her surroundings before frowning at the state of her outfit. She picks a nettle off her skirt with the tips her manicured nails and sniffs in Levi's direct with a judgmental brow.

"Who is he? And why am I covered in dirt?"

 

* * *

 

 

Truly, he's been aching for a shower. He lacks the thorough lycanthropic sense of smell what with being human and all, but even he can smell the sweat and fear radiating off his skin. Now that he's talked to his dad, he finally feels like he can relax and take a scalding hot shower. He fucking _deserves_ relaxation.

It's the least the universe can do for him after all of the cosmic fucking it's been supplying him.

So he sheds his clothes, steps into the shower, and lets his muscles loose under the spray.

Even though he's been left alone, the daylight pouring in through the windows allows him feel safe. In Stiles' not-so-adult mind, darkness equals bad. Despite having been in very real and terrifying situations in broad daylight, he doesn't feel like Norman Bates is going to slide back the curtain wielding a butcher knife ready to maim and kill--discordant violins playing in the background and the whole shebang.

He's actually thankful his dad doesn't have to cover anymore night shifts. That means more forgiving hours, more time with Stiles, and less time Stiles has to spend alone at night. Which, if he were to guess, is exactly why his dad is no longer taking night shifts. Ever since the car crash, his dad always has this weary, concerned look in his eyes.

Stiles sinks further into his quiet contemplation, closing his eyes where the darkness is safe and warm. Everything is safe and warm. _All the time_.

Synthetic calm pours into him like hot tar.

His breathing slows, air thick and steamy dragging in and out of his lungs. His body begins to feel light, almost like he might float away, and he opens to eyes to find that there is not one but three showerheads. The room is spinning.

Clumsily, he stumbles out of the still running shower; shutting off the tap seemed too much a challenge with his current inexplicable vertigo. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he staggers until he's standing in front of the sink bracing himself on the ceramic rim. His mind is cloudy, as thick as the hot steam fogging up the bathroom. Complete thoughts are a chore, each sentence churned out word by word every few seconds with intense concentration.

The first thought he manages to piece together is that the air smells like rotting flesh.

Okay.

_Weird._

Showers should always result in a clean soapy fragrance, not this nauseating carrion odor.

He wretches into the sink painfully.

For a moment Stiles thinks he might throw up, but pushes through it with both hands still clasped on the edge of the sink. Staring down into the darkness of the drain he wills himself away from nausea.

Then the darkness _moves_.

Stiles' eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets. He squeezes his eyes shut so tight phosphenes dance around the corners, praying for it to be a mirage.

When he opens them again, the darkness is still moving, along with a soft hiss that bounces out of the cold, wet pipe. It's only when he sees two shining black eyes that he realizes that his drain pipe isn't moving--there's something slithering out of it.

He throws himself backwards, watching the flat, arrow shaped head emerge with a long caudal-like body attached to it. It is as black as midnight, its absent eyes shimmer darkly like pools of ink, hard to tell apart from the sea of shining scales. Even the tongue that darts out with a hiss is black.

The snake pays no mind to Stiles, just undulates over the barrier of the sink and drops to the floor.

With an unhinged jaw, Stiles watches the snake slither through the crack of the open door and into the hallway, following warily because seriously? What the actual fucking fuck.

But also, Stiles feels obliged to follow.

Its hiss sounds almost dulcet, lulling him to obey.

He pursues the snake down the hall and into his bedroom, mind going cloudy again without the adrenaline to sharpen his senses; he barely notices the still present miasma of decay.

He watches it dance upwards against the wall under his window, a window he most decidedly did not leave open and yet miraculously the lower sash it slid all the way up. It slithers over the sill and into the outdoors and Stiles follows, entranced.

 

* * *

 

 

"Sir, you're going to want to take a look at this." A fat manila folder flops down on John's desk on top of Robert Webb's coroner's report. "He's a long way from home," the deputy comments casually, leaning against the desk.  

John opens the folder and the first page draws a tired sigh from his lips. 

Robert Webb, suspect of six murders, missing.

"Two other departments are faxing what they have on him, just so we can have all the records to seal up the case and send his body back to Oakdale." John nods, flipping through the gruesome photographs taken of Webb's victims. "Ya' know," the deputy says off-handedly, "it's kinda' weird this guy just shows up here out of nowhere one day, after all those murders. I mean, no mode of transportation, no hotel bookings, no nothing, 'least not on record. Just somehow ended up all the way here on foot. This town is straight out of the X-Files sometimes, I swear."  

"Can't argue with that. Thanks for bringing these over, Deputy." 

The deputy nods and whistles the haunting theme to X-files as he exits the office.

According to his profile, Robert Webb had only been arrested once in his lifetime. Just after his twenty-first birthday he was involved in a major car collision and charged with DUI. Luckily, no one had been injured, with the exception of himself. The crash had left him with two displaced vertebrae, and subsequently, severe chronic pain, hence the Oxycodone prescription that had been found at the crash. 

He looked like an average twenty-one-year-old in his mug shot, if not a little depressed. Not someone capable of brutally murdering six people. 

Four weeks ago, he'd gone missing, after his girlfriend's body had been found bludgeoned to death with a hammer in the living room of their 800 square foot apartment in Oakdale, California. The damage to her head had been so profound, the medical examiners had to identify her by her fingerprints. 

A trail of murders was then discovered, all with the same m.o. Almost a straight shot from Oakdale to Beacon Hills, departments reported and investigated bludgeonings, with Webb being sighted in the area around the time of the murder, and his fingerprints were left on the weapon. Sloppy. It was an open and shut case, except Webb would always seem to be two steps ahead, and was never apprehended. 

When questioned, Webb's landlord had told the investigators that he'd made complaints about strange noises in his apartment about a week prior to Webb's disappearance. He'd demanded an exterminator be brought in, but nothing was found. Later, he'd made paranoid accusations that someone had broken into his apartment repeatedly and was stalking him. 

The motive most agreed on was that Webb had suffered a mental break after finding the body of one Mary Piper hanging from a tree on a trail less than a mile from his apartment building. She'd been found with bruises on her hands and feet, severely dehydrated, her corpse severely swollen from sun poisoning. The case had been ruled as a suicide, with Webb having an alibi during her estimated time of death. 

At the bottom of the stack of papers is a small copy of an old polaroid of Piper. She's holding a newborn, her smile sparkling as she sits on the porch of a large farmhouse. Her long dark hair is slicked back into a neat ponytail, her eyes a brilliant hazel. She looks jubilant, not like someone who'd hang themselves on a public trail in the woods. 

The inkling leaves Sheriff Stilinski's stomach sinking like lead. It doesn't quite add up. 

As suspected, one quick google search of her name and there are a plethora of news articles to choose from.

**_Twelve Injured and Seven Dead in Winnemucca, Nevada Shooting_ **

_After a mass shooting at the Winnemucca South Elementary School, twelve injuries and seven deaths have been reported. Out of the twelve injures reported, two are believed to be faculty, and ten are believed to be children. They remain in intensive care, still being treated for their injuries. Of the seven deaths, six were children, one of them believed to be six year old Julianne Piper, daughter of Mary and Paul Piper._

_Suspect, thirty-one-year-old poet, Mary Piper is believed to be responsible and has yet to be detained by authorities currently investigating. Authorities say the shooter sat in a building across the street from the school courtyard while targeting their victims from a third story window._

_Authorities warn that if you see this woman, do not approach. Call your local police department and leave the vicinity immediately._

**_Husband Found Brutally Murdered after Winnemucca Massacre_ **

_Thirty-four year old Paul Piper was found shot to death in his apartment after his wife, thirty-one year old Mary Piper, was believed to have been the lone shooter at Winnemucca South Elementary School, claiming the life of their six year old Julianne and six others. Police say Paul Piper bled out in his apartment after suffering two fatal shots to the solar plexus._

_A poem was found written in what was believed to be the victim's blood on a wall in their home, clearly stating his wife's name._

**_"Mary Piper, Mary Piper,_ **

**_She carries a sniper and is quick as a viper_ **

**_Mary Piper, Mary Piper,_ **

**_She tells the tale of blood and gore_ **

**_Until her darlings are no more."_ **

_Authorities believe this to be a crucial piece of evidence tying Mary Piper to both crimes._

_The suspect is still believed to be armed and dangerous. If seen do not approach…_

John blows out a long suffering sigh. Stiles just might be right.

 

* * *

 

 

"Jesus Christ."

Derek veers into the Stilinki's driveway. The driver side door dings viciously having been left open, keys still in the ignition as he races around the house.

Stiles is on the roof, with nothing but a towel wrapped precariously around his hips, staring blearily off the edge in a daze.

Derek shouts up to him from the backyard, hands curled around his mouth. Of course Stiles doesn't answer. Clearly, Derek has to go up there and get him. How dare he think anything involving Stiles would be easy.

Derek tilts his head back and groans before starting up the side of the house.

He steadies himself on the edge, knees rubbing painfully against the asphalt shingles through his jeans, before raising to his feet. He can see the expanse of Stiles' back as he peers down, bruised, pale, and mole speckled, uncharacteristically thin. Shadows paint the underside of his shoulder blades and edges of his spine. He could probably count his ribs if he got close enough. His hair sticks to the back of his neck in dark ropes, the tips of his hair beaded in water.

"Stiles," Derek calls out from across the slanted roof. It would be so easy to fall from there, especially when Stiles' toes curl around the edge, the asphalt scratching at the soles of his feet. It’s a two story house, at least a twenty-five-foot drop, easily a broken leg, a hip, a spine… a neck.

Why can't Stiles ever be where he's supposed to be?

That seems to startle the teen into reality and Derek flinches when Stiles flails forwards, then magically manages to sway back to safety and still remain on his feet. He spins around with an adorable frown to face Derek, confused like he'd run into the werewolf at the grocery store or literally anywhere else completely ordinary that isn't on his roof in a towel.

"Well don't look _too_ happy to see me, Sourwolf. It's not like you came inside _my_ house of _your own accord_ or anything."

Derek's eyebrows maneuver above his eyes, communicating that he's fighting the urge to rip his own hair out valiantly.

" _Inside?_ " Derek growls. "Stiles, do you think you're inside right now? Try on top of your _fucking house._ "

Stiles puckers his lips in consideration, narrowing his eyes as he looks from side to side, just now realizing his surroundings. "Oh," he says, like it's no big deal, "how'd we get up here?"

"I don't know Stiles, how _did_ you get up here?"

Stiles reflects on the question with another frown.

Derek can’t imagine how the teen managed to climb up onto the roof, with no ladder, towel still wrapped around his waist.

"The last thing I remember is getting into the shower. After that it’s…"

"Blank?"

"Yeah."

"Gee, how did I guess that one?" Derek sneers, crossing his arms.

"Wow. So funny." Stiles rolls his eyes. "What are you even doing here?"

"Really you're gonna' ask me that question right now?"

"Oh my god. No, asshole, I meant how did you know to come find me?"

"Your Dad called me. He said you weren't answering your phone and that I should come check on you since he's buried in paperwork right now."

Stiles swears under his breath. "Did he say anything about said paperwork?"

"No? But I can ask when we call him after we get down from this roof, which we should do right now before your neighbors see us."

"Right good plan, yes." Stiles start pads over to Derek only to freeze. "How do we do that? No way in hell are you carrying me. Nope. Not fuckin' happening."

"I was going to grab a ladder, you idiot."

Stiles claps his hands together. "Alright, good plan. Don't have to be a dick about it."

Derek ends up sitting on Stiles' bed tapping out the sheriff's number as Stiles enters his room, fully dressed in jeans and a flannel. He rifles through the paperwork on his desk, turning around to see Derek hold his phone up to his ear, and slaps the phone away.

Derek's contemptuous glare is _almost_ threatening, especially with the flash of icy blue, but Stiles just rolls his eyes and ends the call. He tosses the phone onto the duvet like it had personally offended him.

"You're not calling my dad."

Derek raises one impressively angry eyebrow at him. "And why is that."

Stiles rolls up onto the balls of his feet and points a finger towards the phone. "Because you'll tell him what just happened, which I can't have you doing. See, my dad is already worried enough about me and I don't know if his heart could take another surprise like that."

"Stiles, you were basically naked on your roof, and last night, you thought something broke into your house to kill you. What the fuck is up with you?"

Stiles' finger curls into a fist and he sucks in his lips searching for an answer. "That is a work in progress. I'm hoping it's just some weird side effect to these new meds. I've been doing a lot of googling, and there's just so many side effects you see-"

"You're acting insane."

"I know, just," Stiles sits in his desk chair and slumps, running a hand through his damp hair and sighing. "I'm dealing with it, okay? I'll talk to my psychiatrist about it tomorrow, I swear, just―don't tell my dad. _Please._ He has enough to worry about."

Derek scowls up at the ceiling. "I have to tell him something."

"Tell him I was just in the shower! It's partly true. Barely even a lie. And then you can be on your merry way. Go do whatever it is you do in your manly solitude."

"No way am I leaving you alone right now."

"Don't pretend like you give a shit."

The vexed expression he wears then, Derek probably has trademarked. "How can you say that? Honestly?"

"Well you see, my brain sends a message to my mouth and it comes out. Neurology is incredible."

"Were you dropped on your head as a child?"

"You're the one that doesn't understand neurology." Stiles crosses his arms over his chest with a smug smile.

All Derek can help to do is rub at his eyelids with his fingertips until he's calmed down. Derek's not an idiot, he knows what Stiles is doing. There is no way he's going to leave the kid alone after seemingly almost jumping off a two story house.

"I can't believe I'm about to say this," he mutters, "but we're going to my loft until your dad gets back."

When he looks back up, Stiles' smug smile is gone. He really shouldn't be as proud of that as he is.

"Why?"

"Because if I just tell your dad that you're fine, and we're going to be hanging out in my loft, I won't have to lie so much."

Stiles looks thoughtful for a moment before nodding. "Okay. I can get on board with that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so choppy, I just wanted to sort of paint the picture of how everyone ends up being involved? Next chapter should flow more smoothly, also things start to speed up, if ya know what I mean ;)  
> P.S. I did a crap ton of research on Judaism and stuff, and obviously I'm taking huge liberties with this villain I've created, but if I've got anything seriously wrong, or something's offensive, please feel free to correct me.  
> P.P.S. Thank you so much to everyone who left kudos and/or commented. I will adopt all of you. Especially since I'm awkward af when I reply.  
> P.P.P.S. Oh my god fuck winter when will this icy hellscape end  
> Also Fic Recs? Yes? Maybe?  
> Go read Bring My Heart to Heel by Heyokaooohshiny. It's highkey waY better than this trash  
> Okay I'm done rambling now


	4. Subversion

 

 

 

"I want to be with you. It’s as simple and as complicated as that"

—Charles Bukowski

 

[ ](http://tinypic.com?ref=25tgpjd)

 

 

 

Derek's unlocking the front door to his loft and he already looks like he's plotting a way to gut Stiles and not have to serve prison time. Joke's on Derek, Stiles' dad would probably just skip right past handcuffs and shoot him.

The loft somehow looks emptier than the last time he'd been here. Stiles looks around the big, bright empty room and all he can really see is dust floating in and out of the sunlight streaming in from the wall of windows. He's beginning to think this was a bad idea. If boredom doesn't kill him Derek will, because Stiles tends to go a bit off the wall when he doesn't have something to keep him busy.

"I don't really have much here," Derek says as if he'd just read his mind, "but I have a laptop and we could watch something."

"Do you have ice cream?"

Derek gives him a flat look. "Does it look like I would have ice cream?

Stiles glances down at the thickly muscled chest that even his leather jacket can't hide. "Fair point."

Derek toes off his shoes by the front door and shoulders off his jacket, flinging it carelessly onto the counter as he opens the fridge for Stiles to look inside. It's near empty.

"I don’t have much in the way of food here. Pretty much all I eat is chicken and broccoli, and it's not like I ever have guests…"

"What was that, Mr. Popular? I couldn't hear you over the crowd of fans you have waiting outside to get your autograph."

Derek rolls his eyes like Stiles' very existence is taking years off his life. "…and I was going to say we can order whatever you want."

Stiles' jaw drops. "Is _Derek Hale_ being _amicable?!_ " he cries. "Did someone die? No, can’t be. Not enough brooding. Do you want something from me? Do you owe somebody money because if you do, let me tell you, buddy, I can't even afford-"

"Stiles. You are the only person I know that considers irritation a hobby."

Stiles barks out a laugh. "Yeah, somehow I don't believe that. How does Chinese sound?"

Derek shrugs and asks, "Have you ever seen Singing in the Rain?"

Next thing he knows they're sat on the floor in a corner of what would be Derek's living room if it had any furniture that would make it appear livable. Derek's back is up against one wall while Stiles' is up against the other, legs stretched out so his ankles rest over Derek's lap. It's strangely comfortable; so comfortable neither of them seem to notice just how comfortable it is.

_"I did say some awful things that night, didn't I?"_

_"No, I deserved them. Of course, I must admit I was pretty much upset by them. So upset I haven't been able to think of anything but you ever since."_

_"Honest?"_

_"Honest."_

Gene Kelly is romancing Debbie Reynolds on an old Hollywood film set and that's about all Stiles has got. He stopped paying attention to the movie long ago. Now he's got a little humorous smile on his face as he watches Derek attempt to gracefully slurp noodles with a pair of chopsticks, eyes trained on the computer screen. Stiles had tried giving him a fork, but Derek is Derek, and there's no getting around that. It's warm and domestic in a way that Stiles can't remember feeling since his mom was alive.

_"Mom? What is a libertanean?"_

_Claudia closes her book and smiles, the whites of her teeth gleaming in the gentle daylight. She pulls Stiles into her lap as they sit comfortably under the shade of a tree in the park. "A libertarian is someone who believes in freedom," she explains._

_"Are you and dad libertarians?"_

_"Yes, little nos przycisk," she says, tapping his nose with her pointer finger. He giggles. "Your father fights for freedom every day, here in our hometown, and we're very proud of daddy aren't we?"_

_"Yes!" Stiles squeals, throwing his arms around her neck. She kisses him tenderly on the cheek like she always does when Stiles steals hugs._

He feels a hand on his knee and he looks up to see Derek frowning at him. He's so beautiful it's disgusting, and being around him has started to feel more like home than his own house he's just realized. That might become a problem.

"Are you okay?"

Stiles shakes away the memory and swallows. "Yeah. Just sort of went somewhere for a moment."

For a minute Derek looks like he wants to ask where, but thinks better of it and nods.

"Why are you being so nice to me?" Stiles blurts out.

"What?"

"Well, before, you threatened me with bodily harm pretty much every time you saw me. Now we're on the floor eating when it's not even dinner time, watching old musicals, and you don't even care that my feet are touching you." Stiles wiggles his toes for good measure, demonstrating just how odd the entire situation is.

Derek stares at him for a long moment. Too long, if Stiles has any say in the matter. His heart may or may not throb with hope.

For a moment he thinks he might have crossed some weird invisible line by acknowledging the kindness. You know what they say, never look a gift horse in the mouth.

Derek's probably considering kicking Stiles out and making him walk home, but then he says, "Well, we both don't really have anyone, right? Maybe I'm trying to be better, so it doesn't have to be that way."

It's not completely true. Stiles still has his dad, but he can't exactly say the same for Derek. With his uncle as psychopathic and mercurial as he is, and his sister somewhere deep in the jungle on another continent, Derek really does have no one.

Stiles has always liked Derek, whether he's always known it or not is a different story. The best he can do here is try to be someone(even if it _is_ just a friend) for Derek.

"Okay," Stiles says unevenly, refusing to look away from Derek's penetrating rainbow gaze. It's intense. He swallows, regaining control over his vocal chords. "Okay," he says again, nodding.

"Okay," Derek replies like they've just made a business deal.

This is as close to an admission of friendship as Stiles figures he's going to get. Even though it's not exactly what he wants, he'll take it.

It's an oddly specific pull, but Stiles stares at Derek's furred cheek and desperately wants to kiss it like his mother did when he was young, so Derek can feel the same serene warmth he did as a child.

"So, I didn't figure you for a showtunes kinda' guy. Why Singing in the Rain?"

Derek just shrugs and retrains his attention back onto the laptop screen with the casual indifference that Stiles can see straight through.

 

* * *

 

"You asked why Singing in the Rain," Derek alludes from behind Stiles about half an hour after the movie ends, catching him off guard as he rinses the residual soy sauce from a plate.

Stiles turns away from the sink to face him. Something heavy and unrecognizable is settled in Derek's eyes; it makes Stiles feel awkward and small standing there covered in soapy bubbles up to his elbows.

"I did," Stiles acknowledges with a hesitant narrow of his eyes.

Derek pauses, running his fingers through his hair nervously in a way Stiles has never seen before. "I'll tell you something if you tell me something."

Stiles scoffs, but curiosity lights him up like a firecracker. "What is this, twenty questions?"

"It can be."

Stiles crosses his arms over his chest and leans back against the edge of the kitchen sink with an assessing gaze. "Okay Big Guy. Tell me, why did you pick Singing in the Rain?"

Derek sighs, looking entirely too uncomfortable for him having instigated the conversation in the first place.

"It was my mom's favorite movie," he begins leerily. "We used to watch it together when someone had a nightmare or was scared because of a thunderstorm. She'd snuggle up with us on the couch, and it'd always make us feel better. You seemed like you could use that."

Stiles looks as gutted as he feels at that explanation. He can't imagine a Derek that cries from nightmares or gets afraid of thunderstorms, that entire concept seems inconceivable, but he understands the catharsis behind talking about lost loved ones. He never talks about his mom anymore.

"Oh my god," Stiles breathes, having to turn everything into a joke because he's more comfortable with humor than grief. Or maybe he's just an asshole. "Behind those mean ol' eyebrows you're just a big mushy momma's boy."

"I've never denied that. I love my mom."

As much as Stiles would have rather made a joke of that, a silent _me too_ is communicated through a small smile instead.

"My turn," Derek says, taking a step closer. "What really happened the other night?"

Stiles shrugs, ready to turn back and finish washing the plates as a distraction. "I've just been having a hard time lately."

"So am I. Tell me something I don't already know."

"I thought I saw a ghost, but I'm not so sure anymore." Derek sucks in a breath to argue, but Stiles doesn't let him. "Nuh-uh. You get one question so it's my turn." To which Derek glares in reply. He really does have an impressive bitch face. "Is this… does this…" he gestures between the two of them, "does this feel weird to you?"

Derek takes his sweet time responding and it's more than a little disconcerting. Stiles can feel his heart rate spike, but he chooses not to acknowledge it in favor of not pressing Derek even further, although he clearly hears it.

"No," he says, finally.

Stiles breathes out a long sigh of relief he hadn't realized he was holding. "Cool. Me too." Although this should be weird, whatever this is.

Derek takes another step closer until they're barely a foot apart.

"Are you still in love with Lydia?"

Derek's gaze is sharp and unyielding, but Stiles can see all of the emotions beneath it―anxiety, curiosity, maybe even trust. He tells himself not to get carried away on false hope, that someone like Derek couldn't possibly return his feelings, but the question still catches him off guard.

"I… no. That stopped after I started dating Malia."

"And Malia?" Derek asks, raising his eyebrows in anticipation.

Stiles lets him get away with the second question because if this is going where he thinks it's going, no way is he going to fuck it up. Not if he can help it.

"I never _really_ loved her, I just… I liked her? But I didn't, like, _love_ her?"

Stiles can't quite organize his thoughts with the way Derek's burning two distinct holes into him with his gaze; he loses track of what they were talking about.

"It's your turn."

It takes a second for Stiles to realize he's been crowded up against the sink, the imposing werewolf nearly twice his size, yet still not at all threatening. At least not in the standard sense of the word. "I, uh…" Derek's looking at him expectantly, and it's a little too much, like Stiles is being handed something priceless and fragile and told not to drop it, but Stiles is clumsy and awkward and he's never been good at keeping anything safe. But God does he want to try.

A fire starts in the pit of his stomach and breathes up his chest until his face is hot and he's just a little dizzy. He swallows heavily, looking up at Derek through his eyelashes.

Derek's looking at him like he's a _gift_ and it's too much and he can't stop himself.

"Can I kiss you?"

He isn't sure what he was expecting, but he wasn't expecting the shy nod Derek grants him. It's such a surprise he's uncertain of what to do next, like if he actually did lean in and take what he wants, which is just inches away, it would all evaporate into a cloud of smoke and he'd be left alone. Again.

But Derek bumps their noses together encouragingly with a smile that shows the creases at the corners of his eyes. "It's okay," he assures with more tenderness Stiles thought he was even capable.

Stiles' entire world has felt nothing but confused and uprooted, distorted by violence and anger, and it's been miserable up until this specific point. At this point, all of his doubt seeps out of him and he presses in to kiss Derek chastely.

Is this all it takes? Dry skin on skin, just a modest touch of lips, and Stiles' heart starts pounding. Why hasn't he ever felt this way before? He feels like he's glowing.

When he feels Derek pull away, cool air replacing his warmth, his eyes flutter open. Derek doesn't look regretful, he just looks _sad._

"I'm sorry," he says, swallowing loudly and wincing, like he was honestly expecting Stiles to say anything but:

"You do realize I _asked_ to kiss you right?"

The corner of Derek's lip tilts up, but it doesn’t seem happy, and a corrosively miserable laugh escapes him in a huff. "Yeah. It's just… kissing me is probably a death sentence. People around me don't live long."

Stiles rolls his eyes endearingly at the man, smiling just the same, despite his heart beginning to crack in two. He places his hands on each of his cheeks, feels the abrasive curl of his beard hair against his palms, and locks his eyes on Derek's gravely. "None of that was your fault, and if I die, that won't be either."

Derek huffs. Gently curling his fingers around Stiles' wrists, he pulls his hands away from his face, forlorn and withdrawn. Stiles thinks this is it. This is when Derek drives him home and they never talk about it. Derek stops coming over, every bit of closeness they've built up together flies out the window like it was nothing.

But then Derek leans against Stiles, wrapping his arms around his waist and presses his face into Stiles' cheek and it's _everything._ He's pretty sure he would float away right now if Derek let go.

"Stiles," Derek breathes, hot and wet into his ear. His name in Derek's mouth sounds like perfume poured out. He wants to hear it a thousand times over. "I'm so glad I met you." There's desperation there also, his body seems to fit perfectly around Stiles', or how his hands are tight and cautious on his shoulders. It's in his voice, the rough whisper that makes Derek sound like he's been cracked in two. This is when confessions spill out from their wounds.

Stiles gasps. Derek buries his nose in the dark hair behind his ear, tightening his arms around Stiles' waist until there's no air between their chests, only fabric and sweat, and trust. Stiles can’t ever remember feeling safer than he does right now with Derek hugging him to his chest. He loops his arms around Derek's neck and rests his head on his shoulder, the tip of his nose tickling the vein that stands out from tanned skin.

"Me too," Stiles whispers back, tries as hard as he can to make it sound like a promise.

"Maybe it's better if you went back to hating me."

Stiles pulls away till the ridge of his back meets the edge of the sink, only a few inches of space between them, not even enough to make Stiles strain to keep his arms looped around Derek's neck, but it still feels too far away.

" _Never_."

Derek looks torn apart at the weight in Stiles' voice, half of him doubtful, the other half longing. The hazel in his eyes looks golden in the sunlight streaming into his loft, and he looks so, _so_ vulnerable.

Stiles' heart feels like it's been ripped out of his chest. He never wants Derek look this way. Ever.

He moves one hand up, his fingers curling in the inky dark hair that's just a little too long on the back of his neck. His eyes forceful as they hold Derek's gaze.

He's not sure what they are now, but he'll be damned if he lets Derek whither in his own self-hate. Not now, not after that kiss.

"I will _never_ hate you, Derek," Stiles says, trying to crush the words into Derek's skull. Even though his heart hammers in his chest and his hands feel numb, the way Derek's eyes cast guiltily downwards and flick back up pushes him to continue. "Never again. You're… you're good, Derek. Do you understand me? You're one of the heroes."

As if everything came crashing down around him, Derek surges forward. Stiles has no choice but to jump back so he sits on the edge of the counter, to make Derek's mouth more accessible, but in the process knocks over the plates that were drying off to the side. They tumble and break apart on the floor, broken ceramic shards scattering across the smooth hardwood.

He's two seconds away from apologizing for his outrageous clumsiness, ruining the moment with broken dishware, but then Derek's tongue is licking into his mouth and there's suddenly no more room in between his lips for words.

Stiles unconsciously wraps his legs around Derek's waist as the kiss deepens into something delicious and slow. The movement is enough to encourage Derek to rut against Stiles, both growing hard in their jeans from the heat of it all. Derek swallows Stiles' answering moan like it's liquid gold.

He's spent so long assuming Derek saw him as nothing but some spastic teenager, that his mind has to run at a thousand miles per hour just to catch up to the situation. A situation which involves Derek's hands gently smoothing up his back, under his shirt, his lips trailing down his neck. His feelings shouldn't be requited, it's illogical; Derek isn’t the kind of guy to settle for _Stiles._ Derek's the kinda' guy that dates supermodels and belongs on a calendar. A weird, specialty calendar where all the models are tall, dark, and have an ineffable air of tragedy. Masochist monthly; Stiles should copyright that.

Sometime during Stiles' inner monologue, Derek's popped open the button on his jeans, pulled the zipper down, and reached under the denim to cup Stiles' hard length. He practically melts under Derek's hand.  
"Ah… _Fuck_ ," Stiles groans arching under his touch.

There's nothing but serrated breaths between them when Derek starts rubbing through his underwear.

 _God._ Why wasn't sex with Malia this good? This hardly even counts as a hand job, but here he is, falling apart anyway.

And Derek has the nerve to stop. His hand slides out of Stiles' jeans and settles on his hips, thumbs rubbing absently at his sides as he presses their foreheads together so their breaths tangle.

"Sorry," he says through a pant.

"You better be fucking apologizing because you _stopped._ "

" _Stiles,_ " he says heavily, pressing his eyes shut like just saying his name hurts, his eyebrows drawn down together like a dark raincloud. Stiles can feel his fingers pressing in just hard enough to leave a mark. He sounds _wrecked_. "You have to tell me. You have to tell me that you want this."

Stiles sort of wishes he could see his eyes, the way the pure late sunlight makes them shimmer rainbow or the way that his expressions are a lot more likely to tell a story than his words. He wants to see his pupils blown and his eyelids droop, but mostly Stiles wants to see if Derek really trusts him with this, because Stiles trusts Derek.

"Damnit, Derek. Yes, a million times yes. _Fuck, please, yes._ "

"Yes."

"Yes!" Stiles practically giggles before Derek's mouth is back on his, this time fast, persistent, bruising. He can feel Derek's smile as it collides with his own over and over again.

Stiles loses his shirt after a few maladroit attempts to fling it off, Stiles' palms rubbing over Derek's chest, Derek's mouth running over Stiles' collarbone. It does come off though, eventually, and is thrown into a corner and forgotten about immediately when Derek bites his peck and sucks a nipple into his mouth.

The gurgling sound Stiles makes can probably be counted as one of the most embarrassing noises that has ever come out of his mouth, but Derek doesn't seem to mind. It feels amazing, but Stiles is impatient, so he slaps at Derek's back to grab his attention until lust-darkened eyes look up at his flushed face in question.

"Bedroom," he states more than asks. He isn't entirely sure Derek even has a bedroom.

Derek doesn't answer, because he truly is an asshole, instead lifting him up with both hands on his ass and pressing him to his chest to carry him down the hall to what he suspects is Derek's room. Stiles wraps his legs tighter around his waist and lets his head rest on his hard shoulder, arms slung over them carelessly. There's an odd, crooked trail of bloody footprints. Derek must have stepped on a shard of ceramic.

Derek doesn't seem to care at all.

The world spins when Derek dumps him onto a mattress, low to the ground with nothing but a box spring under it. He scrambles backward until his back hits pillows, drools when Derek slides his shirt off to reveal a perfect, muscled tan chest.  
"What do you want?" Derek asks, looking taken apart and put back together haphazardly, ready to burst at the seams. Stiles knows he can’t look much better, heat has risen to his skin, chest heaving, dick _throbbing._

"Can I ride you?" he blurts out, like an idiot, because he is one. He doesn't regret it though, especially not after the way Derek growls approvingly, low in the back of this throat.

He crawls over Stiles predatorily, with his perfect fucking chest and beautiful eyes and Stiles wants to die. His hand is shaking when he cups the back of Stiles' neck to lift his head into a gentle kiss, as if _he's_ the one that's affected, nervous even. It’s not fair. People as beautiful Derek shouldn’t be allowed to be this adorable as well.

Stiles kicks off his shoes, almost kneeing Derek in the crotch, and shimmies his jeans halfway down his thighs before Derek huffs a fond laugh and helps him the rest of the way. Stiles cups Derek's bearded cheeks and Derek lets him roll them over so Stiles is on top. With nothing left but his briefs, his knees bracket Derek's powerful thighs.

He leans in as if to kiss Derek's lips, but quickly switches directions to kiss his jawline, his Adam's apple, his collarbone, his peck, down his stomach. There's a grumble somewhere hidden in Derek's heavy breaths. By the time he reaches the waistline of Derek's jeans, he leans up to unbuckle them, Derek lifting his hips to help as Stiles drags them down and tugs them completely off. His black briefs slide away a few seconds after he finishes appreciating the way the fabric clings to his muscled thighs.

Stiles has never thought a dick could be pretty until today. Derek isn't _huge_ per say, but well off. The silky, sanguine skin smooth and uncut, dark and shining with precome at the tip. He reaches out to trail his fingertips down it, pausing before he wraps his hand around him, looking up to Derek in permission.

"Can I--?"

Derek nods as if he'd never even considered saying no, and that's all it takes for him to wrap his long fingers around Derek's shaft and stroke lightly. Derek nearly folds himself in half as he rises off the pillows with a broken moan spilling from his lips, eyes glazed over with want. It's all the encouragement Stiles needs to lean down and lick Derek's tip, tasting the salty clear liquid as it dribbles out. It's not unpleasant.

He sucks the tip into his mouth, feeling Derek tense up under him, silent as he holds his breath while Stiles begins to sink down. Derek smells strongest of himself here, and Stiles finds he enjoys it. He especially likes the way Derek trembles when he opens his eyes to look up at the werewolf, sucking him down.

He's probably not very good at it, he's got no idea what he's doing, nor does he have the gag reflex to really give the kind of enthusiasm he'd like to, but Derek seems to like it just the same. The way his hands over behind Stiles' head, too nervous to touch, is evidence of that. Even if Stiles can only go down a few inches, mostly paying attention to not letting his teeth scrape against the skin, he lets himself feel giddy that Derek's above him and panting.

" _Stiles,_ " Derek rasps, his voice low and destroyed. From Stiles. "You need to pull off."

Stiles does as he's told, pulling off the head with an obscene pop and frowning upwards at him. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Didn't wanna' come too early."

He resettles on Derek's lap, leaning down for another kiss, to which Derek accepts happily. He could kiss Derek forever and be content with nothing else.

He wants sex. Oh boy, does he want that.

But he also just loves _this._ The soft, sweet kisses. Running his palms over Derek's protective muscles, skimming his fingertips over the valleys of his face, running them through his luxurious dark hair, watching the way his adventurous feet move across the floor, unguarded. His skin, tan and tight, even faintly lined from age and stress if you look close enough in the right places; it's thick with untold stories, and he wants Derek to tell him all of them when he's ready.

Derek's body is an erotic landscape, and Stiles wants to explore everywhere.

Stiles grinds down, reveling in the punched out groan that Derek releases.

Seeing Derek like this is a privilege. He wants to make this as good as possible, to make Derek want to do this over and over and over again, because Stiles is already flushed and panting, grinding down onto Derek's cock like he can't function without it. Stiles' briefs are still in the way, but he can't concentrate enough to remove them, he just wants release. Derek's no better, hands clamped down on his hips like they're a lifeline, eyes half-lidded, mouth hanging open.

"Lube," is all Stiles manages through a croak.

Derek reaches over the edge of the mattress to rifle through a night bag next to the bed, twisted uncomfortably so Stiles doesn't have to move off of him. He pulls out an unopened bottle of lube and Stiles can't help but feel pride out how Derek hasn't used it on anyone else. He doesn't have time to react, because Derek pulls him into another heart-wrenching kiss. Derek kisses like it’s the last time he'll get to touch Stiles.

"Condom?" he asks through a breath against Stiles' lips.

Their noses bump as Stiles shakes his head and decidedly says, "No." It's not like Derek can carry diseases anyways.

"Okay."

And they're kissing again, wet and beautiful, and Derek's pulling Stiles' briefs off hesitantly, like he might change his mind.

He doesn't.

They get thrown to the side in the direction of his discarded jeans, and then he's completely naked, on top of Derek Fucking Hale, who is also naked. He can feel his pulse humming in his ears so loudly he can't recognize whose breaths are whose. He just sits there, arms dangling at his sides, pale and gangly and awkward and he suddenly feels very much unattractive sitting on top of, well, basically a Greek God.

Derek just sits there, leering appreciatively, eyes sweeping over his rosy face, down his toned chest, pausing at the dark red head of his cock, glistening with precum and back up to his face. His hands rub soothingly up his thighs before he reaches for the bottle of lube and flicks it open, instructing Stiles to sit up on his heels.

Stiles closes his eyes, more out of nerves than anything, and then it's just there; a wet touch to the head of his cock. Long fingers wrap around the shaft then slide down and up again, pumping slowly. His eyes fly open, mouth opening with a shaky breath.

" _Fuck._ "

The warmth of his hand quickly disappears, leaving Stiles to hiss at the sudden cold, and trails down underneath his balls until the tip of his forefinger circles his rim. Derek is gentle, like everything else he does with Stiles lately, slow and loving. He's not sure he understands it just yet but makes him quiver like he's going to crumble under the kindness.

The tip pushes in and his breath catches at the odd intrusion. Derek brings their foreheads together again, a silent _I'm here_ , then pushes until his whole finger is inside smoothing his hand from the back of his neck down his spine.

It's not good. It's not bad either. Just strange, never having been touched there by anything other than his own fingers. Derek is longer, fuller, and smoother in his movements, with slightly more access in this position than Stiles is usually granted.

He thrusts his finger in and out, and it's too slow for Stiles' liking. He's keen on Derek getting inside him as soon as possible. So Stiles pushes back and mumbles a quiet, " _more,_ " after a few minutes wanting to feel less empty and cold.

Derek obliges, and it's a bit of a stretch until both of his fingers are fully in, and then he does this… this _thing._ He twists his fingers forward and rubs inside him, hitting just the right spot, causing sparks to shoot up Stiles' spine. He arches with a broken moan, scrambling to steady himself on Derek's chest.

Derek smirks, looking the like smuggest of all to ever smug. Such a dick. "Found it," he mumbles and _does it again._

Stiles barely even notices when there are three fingers, too busy panting and thrusting back onto them, scrambling to stay upright while he loses his mind. He can hardly breathe, his stomach coils tightly, burning pleasantly. His hands frantically swipe over Derek's sweaty chest to find something to grip onto. It's too much already.

"Stop," he just barely manages. Derek freezes immediately, slowly removing his fingers, swallowing heavily at the moan it drags from Stiles.

"Are _you_ okay?" he practically wheezes. Even through the hazy fog of horniness he still manages to look concerned. It's heartwarming.

Stiles nods. "Was gonna' come," he slurs, lust-drunk. Derek nods like he understands completely.

Derek runs his hands down Stiles' legs and lifts him up another inch by his thighs to line his cock up. He must feel Stiles tense above him because he pauses, glancing up with a fever in his eyes as he watches Stiles bite his bottom lip. Jesus Christ this man is beautiful.

"Hey," Derek whispers, catching Stiles' attention with a barely there scrape of his fingertips through his hair. It's enough to knock the jitters right out of him. "You can change your mind. It's okay."

Of course, Stiles shakes his head, because he's pretty sure he's been wanting this since Derek gave him the werewolf equivalent of " _Get off my lawn!_ " Which is, hilarious in hindsight, since he's literally about to get fucked by Derek.  
He doesn't have enough blood flowing to his lungs to even try to laugh at that.

"No, no. I'm ready."

Derek swallows and nods.

This time, Derek just holds his hips, his eyes burning brands into Stiles' skin as he lets him sink down. The wet scorching heat of his dick presses against his entrance. The stretch is intense, a little painful, a faint sting fluttering around his rim as he sinks lower. He flinches, everything tensing, until Derek smooths a reassuring hand down his side, fingertips tracing the asterism moles imprinted on his skin.

Stiles punches out a breath, feigning amusement. "Like my moles?" he asks sarcastically.

Derek, bless him, picks up on the sarcasm. "They're natural," he replies defensively, "I like natural." He smooths his hand down his thigh and massages his knee. "Can you relax for me? Take a deep breath."

Stiles nods, breathing in and out, letting his muscles liquefy until he's sinking all the way down.

It's not so bad when he's relaxed, sitting fully on Derek's lap and feeling him all the way inside. Derek doesn't look so calm; his eyes have bled icy blue, the muscle in his jaw ticking, frozen still to control from fully shifting. He almost looks like he's in pain.

Stiles releases a deep, jagged breath and grinds experimentally. Derek gives a full body twitch, and that does a lot for his self-esteem.

After a minute, the stretch isn't as noticeable. He just feels the dull press of muscles against his thighs, Derek filling him farther than he's ever been before, the all-encompassing heat that makes his blood run thick like honey. He places his hands on Derek's chest for balance, presses his hips down and undulates.

Derek just _thaws_.

Derek's hands slide up to his waist and grips, his hips rut up to meet Stiles' grinding.

It's hotter than anything he could have ever imagined. Stiles' only option is to throw his head back, mewl, and grind down like there's nothing else left in the world for him to do. The pressure is ecstasy.

 "Fuck, you're tight," Derek rasps, head rolling back into the pillows, knees folding, eyes rolling up into his head.

Stiles shivers, toes curling, feet slipping in the soft faded blue sheets. He can hardly breathe, let alone stay balanced on top of a sweaty, vibrating werewolf; his hands slip on Derek's pecks, and Derek catches him by the wrist before he tumbles sideways.

He sits up, wraps his arms around Stiles' waist and presses him in as he grinds upwards. He hits just the right spot, leaving Stiles' nerves singing, and something in him just breaks. His cock is pressed between their stomachs, Derek pressing at his prostate with deep, rough grinds. Stiles scrambles to stay upright by wrapping his arms around Derek's neck. He throws his head back and sobs.

Stiles is seconds away from coming. He feels it coiling, boiling deep down in his stomach aching for release.

He buries his nose in Derek's sweaty hair and spasms, crying out his completion as he shoots his mess between them. Everything glows white at the edges, beautiful and sublime in a post-orgasmic haze. Derek flips them so he can thrust into a limp, overstimulated Stiles.

He's not quick. He presses in and withdraws like he wants to take his time, to feel when their hips connect, to watch Stiles open his mouth in a silent moan, to bite at his neck. He surrounds him until Stiles feels completely blanketed by warmth inside and out until Derek eventually jerks over his lithe form, spilling into him with a deep groan.

Their hair sticks to their foreheads with perspiration, the sheets warm and damp and reeking of sex. There's definitely come drying on their stomachs and inside of Stiles, and Derek's fallen on top of him, resting nearly all of his weight on his chest, but he's content. He nestles the tip of his nose behind Derek's ear where he can smell the sting of boy sweat and the essence of Derek that is so earthy.

"We should probably shower," Stiles murmurs into his ear.

Derek remains silent, tightening his hold around Stiles and shaking his head, face smooshed into the pillow next to Stiles' head.

A blissful smile spreads across Stiles' cheeks. He's in love with Derek, there's no use in denying it now. Not after _that_. The revelation snaps him like a kick in the teeth and he sort of wants to cry and laugh and hide all at the same time. Instead, he just says, "Naptime?"

Derek shakes his head in agreement, and this time Stiles does giggle, pushing Derek off to breathe who shimmies back to cling to his side.

Stiles falls asleep counting Derek's eyelashes and listening to the soundtrack of his breaths.

He can't believe he gets to have this.

 

* * *

 

It's still light out when Stiles comes to. Derek's migrated to the edge of the bed, spread out and snoring softly into his pillow, sheets pulled down to his waist and wrinkled to reveal a smooth muscled back. He can feel the come all over his body sticky and coagulated, sweat cooled over his skin. He wishes he could have just stayed asleep, but now he's forced to clean up otherwise he'd just sit there, sticky and uncomfortable.

He watchfully slithers out from the sheets and steps towards the bathroom down the hall, eyes flicking back to Derek's still form.

When he's clean and got his briefs on, he pads out to the kitchen, casually ruffling his hair and yawning, following the dark footprints of blood back out to where he moronically ruined Derek's dishware.

The least he can do is clean it up for Derek.

Stiles crouches down to pick up each shard individually, carefully, placing them on a paper towel to be thrown out. He catches a glimpse of a small hole in the wall, half hidden behind the fridge. Once he sees it, it's like he knows what's coming next, like a compulsion, an itch.

He sets his concentration back on cleaning up Derek's floor, but it's no use, curiosity gets the better of him.

He places the pile of crumbled ceramic on the floor and crawls on his hands and knees to get a better look. When he realizes the angle is too sharp, and peering around the corner of the fridge is strenuous on his neck, he gracelessly shoves the fridge to the side a few inches. The metal screeches and grumbles against the floor, and Stiles allows a worried glance towards Derek's bedroom and waits a few seconds for Derek to wake. He doesn't, much to Stiles' relief.

_What the hell is he even doing?_

Now that he can properly see it, he gets down on all fours and just stares into the darkness of it. The little cracked triangle split out of the wall, a little bigger than a mouse would need to use as a way to get in.

He's drawn forward, hazy like he'd been drugged. There's something eerily familiar about this. Something he can't quite put his finger on.

He can feel it crawling underneath his skin with certainty, like the certainty that he knows the sun will rise, but he cannot will himself to move.

He can't do anything. So he just stares down into the darkness.

And then, as if it were inevitable, something shifts; something heavy, like a boulder rolling or an earthquake shifting the earth. He can feel it under his skin at the same time he sees it, the slither of black scales far away in the dusty blackness. His breath leaves him, mouth hanging open as he tries to stare further.

His consciousness wavers, blurred and silky like the waves of the ocean, sort of like he's drowning.

He only catches a glimpse of the black cobra before he can't breathe.  
Stiles jolts backward, hands flying to his throat as he fights for breath, feeling the dark creature slither into place inside him. He could feel himself losing consciousness, fighting the beating inside his mind, loud and empty like the cadence of a battle drum.

His hand flies up to grip his stomach as he keels over and heaves, something agonizing burning in his stomach. A black, unctuous liquid leaves him and spills onto the floor, dripping down his chin.

It feels as if he just vomited out his own stomach.

Darkness folds in from every side as pain floods through him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahahahah ha aha ha the prudish asexual attempts to write porn for the first time ha ha hha a


	5. L'appel Du Vide (Call to the Void)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, so warning before you read this chapter. One of the warnings I marked this fic for having was graphic depictions of violence. I just wanted to reiterate that, because ya know it gets a little intense here. Fair warning though, this is rather tame for what's to come in future chapters.

 

“Never open the door to a lesser evil, for other and greater ones invariably slink in after it.”  

― Baltasar Gracián, The Art of Worldly Wisdom

 

[ ](http://tinypic.com?ref=34euomh)

 

 

 

 

 

 

A pretty red brick home with a pretty white front door. That's what Stiles sees as he parks Derek's Camaro in the paved driveway next to an old SUV.

A pretty thirty-something year old woman with short blonde hair and a rose printed apron opens the door with a friendly tilt of her head. The smell of heat and spices rushes out through the open doorway with the promises of home cooked meals.

"Can I help you?" she asks.

Stiles grins obsequiously, the width of it cracking his pale cheeks. "Hi, is your husband home?"

Her perfectly plucked eyebrows twitch down as she glances behind her before turning back to the stranger at her door. "Um… He should be home any second now…"

_Wonderful._

"I presume you're Mrs. Gallagher?"

She narrows her eyes and scoffs with skeptically bowed lips. "Yes, why? Are you a patient of his? He doesn't usually invite clients home…"

Stiles shrugs apologetically. _Always with a polite smile_. "It's just, he wasn't at his office when I stopped by and I needed to talk to him about one of my prescriptions. It's rather urgent." Her fingers twitch on the edge of the door as if she's unsure. "May I step inside for a moment. Just to use the bathroom?"

"Oh, uh, sure of course." Mrs. Gallagher steps out of the way to let Stiles inside. "What did you say your name was?"

"Stiles." He notes the tasteful decorations around the home, the plethora of picture frames hanging on walls. He turns around on his heel to face the woman, uncomfortably close. "You have a beautiful home. Do you have any children?"

"Just one. Off at college," she says, padding into her kitchen with a motion of her hand to follow. "The bathroom is through here and to your left."

"Thank you," he nods and steps towards the direction she points.

Abruptly he stops in his tracks, turning around to face her questioning blue eyes. "I'm sorry, when will Dr. Gallagher be back? You said any second."

Hesitantly, she nods.

"Yes, of course! Thank you."

He wanders through the kitchen and into a shadowy hallway, disappearing for a mere moment before strolling back, hands clasped behind his back with a perturbingly gleeful smile. "You know," he says brightly, "I seemed to have gotten lost. Silly me, and in such a small house."

She must see the predatory glint in his golden eyes, because she freezes, skin going white as she shakily points towards the hall. Silent tension pours into the gaps of their conversation. Cognizant of how uneasy she feels, he practically vibrates with anticipation. "…it's just down there, to your left. There's a picture of sunflowers hanging on the wall next to it."

Stiles' face contorts into a theatrical kind of contemplation before shaking his head to himself. "Could you show me? That would be very hospitable of you," he suggests, rolling up onto the balls of his feet. She remains frozen in her spot, wiping her hands on her apron, watching him with careful eyes.

He approaches her slowly, each step direct and meaningful. A hunter approaching a frightened animal with malicious intent. "Now, Mrs. Gallagher… I am trying to be a courteous houseguest, and courteous is not something I am often known to be." His voice is light and friendly, but his gaze sharpens into a threatening wide-eyed stare. "I think we both know how this is going to end whether or not you accompany me willingly."

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave or I'll call the police." Her crumbling voice washes over him like warm summer rain.

His smile edges sharply, unsettling and not at all Stiles. He's discretely crowded her into a corner without her noticing, too distracted by the snake-like glimmer in his eye that reminds her of death.

"If you try to scream, Lucy, no one will hear you."

Before she even has time to inhale, he strikes, grabbing her by the hair and throwing her backwards, maneuvering her around him so one hand can fit over her mouth to muffle her caterwauling, the other tight on her throat. He pushes her to the bathroom, her legs kicking wildly to escape, throat burning under her desperate screams, unavailing.

"You would have had more dignity if you'd listened," he breathes into her ear before throwing her head first into the tiled floor of the bathroom where she uselessly tries to scramble away.

 

* * *

 

"This doesn't say anything about Robert Webb's death," Scott says over Lydia's shoulder as he watches her rifles through google articles. "But he's definitely fitting the whole 'unspeakable crimes' persona."

They've journeyed to Lydia's to investigate while her parents are out, Levi agreeing to stick around to offer whatever services he can.

"They may not have printed him in the obituaries yet because he was a wanted criminal. They have to contact the other departments that were pursuing him, and the family, and then close the case before they make any public statements. Most likely," Lydia says, her fingers steady as she types.

"He might not even be dead yet."

"Honey," Lydia breathes, "he's dead. Trust me." The pictures of him scattered throughout the articles confirm that he's the one she saw on her doorstep.

Kira frowns. "But that means it could have taken someone else already. How are we supposed to find out who before someone gets hurt?"

Levi adjusts his reading glasses as he searches through the books he lugs around in his backpack for clues. Lydia holds up the piece of lined paper in Kira's line of sight, scattered messily with unfamiliar names.  
"I think this is how we find out. The howlers, they were trying to warn us right? They wouldn't give us a list of names for no reason."

"How are a bunch of names of people who are already dead supposed to help us?" Malia asks defiantly, crossing her arms over her chest.

"I think these are sequential," Lydia explains, as patiently as she can manage with an insolent were-coyote glaring at her. "It's a trail. We just need to figure out how to track it. We need to find out what these people have in common, why it was specifically them."

A few tedious minutes of searching and Scott sticks a finger out over Lydia's shoulder. "There!" he bursts out. "Mary Piper. She was next on the list wasn't she? _'Authorities believe Webb suffered from a case of temporary insanity due to finding the body of one Mary Piper, a woman believed to be the alleged Winnemucca school shooter, just one mile from his apartment.'_ We should look her up, right?"

Lydia's nails click over the keyboard as she hastily searches Mary Piper.  
Kira turns towards Scott, doubtful. "Do you think it's just geographical?"

Levi glances up from his books towards the teens huddled around the laptop. "According to the story, the victims have to already be suffering from some sort of emotional strain, but there's no reason it can't be aided by a lack of distance."

There are gaps, but they find more than a few connections between each of the victims; every suicide seeming to be close to the next victim.

Scott straightens himself up, turning around to face his pack with confident authority.

Liam just looks like he wants to go home.

 "Okay. So I think we've established that this thing has to be near whoever it's going to possess next."

Lydia sucks in his lips, her eyes widening at the epiphany. "This is why I wasn't drawn to Robert's body, why the strange ringing in my ears, why the howlers had to possess me to warn us. Whatever this thing is, it was masking my abilities so we couldn't find out who it had taken, because wherever the body was, it was there too. And so was its next victim. It was hiding."

Malia, for the first time in hours, looks interested in the conversation. "I'd be willing to bet that it was pretty close to where you drove out to in the preserve. I caught the scent of death out there."

"That's where we need to go," Scott says, "like, ASAP. Lydia, maybe you'll get some sort of vision-"

"Not psychic."

"-and Malia and I can see if we catch any scents or see if we find anything useful."

Scott's not good at playing detective, so he feels pretty proud of himself for this one, even if more than half of the credit belongs to Lydia.

 

* * *

 

"Lucy?" A voice rings through the front door with a creak. "Is everything alright? Smells like something's burning."

The soft click of dress shoes against hard wood slowly draws closer to where Stiles has made himself comfortable on the Gallagher's living room sofa.

"Where's Lucy?" the man asks, face void of expression.

"Aren't you going to say hello, Doc?" Stiles is draped over the couch, fingers twitching restlessly over the edge, as if they on their own have a hideous desire to wrap around Gallagher's throat.

He remains standing under the archway to the living room, briefcase in hand, emotionless. "You're not Stiles."

He's right.

It looks like Stiles, smells like Stiles, his voice remains fast and smooth like Stiles', but it's not.

"Congratulations, Doctor!" he cheers, clapping his hands together appreciatively as he stands to circle the man like a hungry shark, shoulders drawn up and tense, ready to strike. "You really are an empath, not one of those bullshit lonely ex-wives who _swears_ they can see auras." Gallagher doesn't make a move, just lets his eyes follow Stiles' lithe form circle him until he comes to a stop when they're eye to eye. "Well, come on, sit down! Put your feet up, it must have been a long day."

Gallagher obeys, sitting calmly on the cushiony sofa in the Stiles' residual warmth.

The demon sits on the edge of the coffee table, staring intently at the older man. His eyes are empty now, no complex thought or emotion, only a plain relentless hunger.

He huffs out a small laugh. "Since you're so keen on being blunt, let's get right to the point, shall we?" Gallagher nods. "Good. Are you familiar with the French saying L'appel du Vide, Doctor?"

"Yes."

"If you could elaborate, please."

"It is known as a phenomena where someone is prone to destructive behaviors for seemingly no reason, like jumping off of a cliff."

The demon applauses again, flashing a twisted grin. "You really know your stuff, huh? And do you know the direct translation of this saying?"

"The call to the void."

"And may I assume you are aware of Stiles' past?"

Gallagher sucks in lips. "He's void, again." The demon smiles approvingly. "Where is my wife? What did you do to her? I can't sense her. Is she…"

The demon feigns contemplation, eyes rolling up to the ceiling. "She's just powdering her nose," he replies slyly.

Gallagher swallows down his contempt and glares through his thick glasses. "I know why you're here."

"Of course you do. You're a very intelligent man. That makes you valuable."

His eye twitches. "You want to know what he is."

" _Yesssss…_ " he breathes, drawing his voice out into a hiss as he leans forward.

"If you let my wife go I'll tell you anything you want to know."

"Tell me what I want to know first."

"Stiles is… was… an inactivated spark."

Stiles' stolen face lights up like wild fire. "A spark," he says, sounding pleased. "It makes so much sense. I can feel it, like hot coals running through his veins. His spirit is made of it." He snaps his fingers, white heat glitters around his fingers like a lit match, and a flame dances from his fingertips. He stares at it in fascination for a moment, wiping it away with a wave of his hand. "It's active _now._ "

Gallagher clears his throat, staring daggers into the golden eyes across from him as they flick up to meet his. "I told you what you wanted to know. Where's Lucy?"

Stiles leans back and tsks. "We're not done here yet. I have control over his spark. I need spells."

"I don't have any spells, I'm a psychiatrist not a mage."

"But you know someone who does."

Gallagher shuts down, face relaxing back into void of any expression. They sit face to face for a few moments in silence, until the demon sighs discontentedly and stands, brushing the imaginary dust off of his thighs. He takes one long look at Gallagher before he starts to head towards the kitchen.

Gallagher jumps to his feet. "Where are you going?"

"Going to see if Mrs. Gallagher might have any information you're leaving out. I don't like having to use methods of torture, but-"

"No wait!" The man reaches out in his spot as if to magically stop him, and for a moment it does. The demon spins around on his heel in interest, Stiles' eyebrows raise in inquisition. He waits, but Gallagher can't bring himself to continue.

He only has so much patience.

"Tell me," he murmurs, taking one deliberate step towards Gallagher, "if I were to crack open your skull, what would I find?" Another step. Gallagher blanches. "Would it be all of the secrets you're hiding from me? Or just a bunch of sticky, red matter? Hm?" Another step echoes around the living room. "Or what about your lovely wife?"

Gallagher sighs forlornly, eyes falling closed in shame. "A friend of mine who works in town used to be an emissary and a practicing mage. If I tell you their name, do you promise to not harm Lucy?"

One of Stiles' shoulders gets thrown up into a shrug carelessly. "Sure."

"Alan Deaton," Gallagher mutters, fists clenching at his sides. "He runs a veterinary clinic in Beacon Hills."

 

* * *

 

"This is it!" Malia slaps Lydia on the shoulder, pointing her finger towards the open road ahead of them, deep in the woods of the preserve. "Pull over!"

Lydia veers her car off to the side of the road, Scott, Malia, and Levi climb out of the backseat and into the damp warming air of the forest. Kira and Lydia step carefully out of the front seats, examining what would be an empty forest to any normal passerby, but the pack can hear the chatter of wildlife, the far off rustling of verdure while a herd of deer graze.

It doesn't take more than a few seconds before they can smell the familiar aroma threaded in between the redolence of wet dirt and fresh air.

"Shit," Malia barks, her shoulders falling as she wipes a hand across her forehead angrily.

Lydia tilts her head inquisitively. "What?"

As an answer, Scott throws his head back and groans. " _Why did it have to be them?_ "

"Who?!"

Scott swallows heavily, eyes following Malia step confidently past a patch of seedlings, following the scent. "The strongest scents besides you and Malia are Stiles and Derek." Scott follows her on the path the scents make, ignoring the way Lydia's jaw drops, stepping closer towards the clearing.

"Wh-are you sure?!" Lydia shouts, wobbling along the beaten path on her heels. She and Kira share a look of distress.

"Yeah."

Lydia rummages through her small handbag, the handle wrapped around her torso, until she pulls her phone free and hastily dials Stiles' number and hold it up to her ear.

It rings.

And rings.

And rings.

"Hey, this is Stiles. Obviously I'm not here but you can leave a message-"

" _Shit._ " She tries again.

"Hey, this is Stiles. Obvi-"

"Shit! Fuck! Are you kidding me Stiles, the one time you don't pick up your phone, I swear to god." She inhales, exhales, inhales again to calm the hammering of her heart and dials Derek. He doesn't pick up either.

Malia and Scott come to an end in their trail, Malia pointing to where Lydia had collapsed and says, "There."

This small patch of dirt and rotten leaves is the last place where any scent of death lingers, but it is thick where it sticks to the newly sprouting grass.

"I'm calling the sheriff."

 

* * *

 

"Now that's what I like to hear." A wicked gleam twinkles in Stiles' eyes while he advances on Gallagher.

Gallagher's eyes fly open in shock when he's yanked forward by the collar of his suit. The demon begins hauling him into the kitchen with short forceful tugs that make his feet slip awkwardly across the floor to follow. " _You said--!_ "

The demon yanks him in close so Stiles' breath hits Gallagher's sweating face in fast, hot puffs. He's so close his eyelashes are less than an inch away from fluttering against the Doctor's glasses.

"I promised not to hurt _Lucy,_ " he hisses, "you're a liability. You can perceive lies, memories, emotions. You know my plans and pretty soon this kid's friends are going to come looking for you, looking for answers. I need to tie up loose ends."

He's being dragged again, his long legs skittering along trying to keep balance until his face is slammed into the wall. With his glasses askew, he can barely make out the little framed embroidery of sunflowers hanging on the wall.

The demon presses in behind, one hand gripping his thinning hair so tightly his knuckles drain of color. Stiles' breath tickles his hear as he leans in.

"You know, they say the best liars are always able to tell when someone is being truthful, and you should never trust a _sssnake_ ," he hisses.

Gallagher is dragged backwards and thrown into a small sky blue bathroom. Outside it's dark, and Stiles can see his warped reflection in the darkness of the window. The demon quickly focuses onto the horrified expression on Gallagher's face.

His feet slip gawkily on the floor, tracking white streaks of tile under the red mess coagulating on the floor. His eyes are trained on one thing: his wife.

Lucy Gallagher—or what's left of her—lays lifeless, bathing in thick red liquid, too opaque to peer down into to see her rose printed apron. Her head his lolled back onto the lip of the bathtub, exposing the ruby darkness of the gash in her throat where the flesh has been torn apart by something jagged and left in tatters. Pretty blue eyes are relaxed and open, staring into the void space in front of her. Her body must still be warm; the room lacks that heavy, cold, emptiness spaces acquire when a body has begun to decompose.

The demon watches Gallagher absorb the scene with pleasure.

"I guess that means you're a terrible liar, huh?"

The last thing Gallagher does before his head is slammed into the ceramic sink, breaking a corner off with the force, is exhale pain.

 

* * *

 

Derek's smile is pressed into the pillows as he hums, the sun long behind the horizon, he's pleasantly woken with the perfume of Stiles, warm, aroused, and content all around him. It envelopes him like the warm down blanket currently wrapped around him like a safe cocoon. He hasn't felt this perfect since…

He can't remember.

He tosses and turns, rolls onto his side, still caught in the cloying embrace of sleep until his hearing catches on the strange silence. A void of noise where a rhythm of soft breaths should be, a heart beating, the slide of skin on blankets. Just complete silence.

Confused, he sits up, the blanket falling to his hips, and looks over to see the cool spot on his bed to where Stiles should be. And it hits him.

Stiles is gone. He _left._

The only clothes on the floor are Derek's, his scent lingering like old perfume, the way his golden eyes set on his only as vivid as a memory. At any other time, Derek believes his heart would sink, he'd crawl back into bed and never leave it, but he knows immediately that something's not right.

He slips his pants on, following the trail of blood he'd carelessly left in the hallway, pausing to pull on his shirt. As the fabric slips down over his face, he sees what's been left of his kitchen, and freezes in astonishment.

The fridge has been upturned, ripped from the wall and left on its side, what little contents inside it spilled all over the floor in a mess, every single cabinet and drawer left wide open. A pool of liquorish black liquid sits thick on the floorboards like molasses. It smells of old blood, the kind of dark blood that flows out when someone is stabbed in the gut, like it's been sitting there for weeks, rotting. He kneels down to examine it, hovering over the pool, he can see his reflection and sense the stench shift to saccharine sweet. It's hypnotic, staring into the darkness of his reflection and being overcome with the sugar-like aroma wafting over him, but something shifting in the air drags his attention away.

It feels suddenly colder, dead and stale, like the bitter winter nights he remembers of New York.

Stiles' chemosignals are everywhere, ripe and comprehensive, telling a story where the gap of Stiles' presence can't. The trepidation, the confusion, then something strange and unnatural, scattered like broken shards of a personality, and then… nothing. Only Stiles' natural bodily scent of blood, flesh, and hormones is left behind as Derek crawls on his hands and knees, shakily following the scent to the counter and then to the door.

It only take a few seconds before Derek's on his feet, lunging for his leather jacket, and out the door. He races down the stairs to the parking lot only to find that his Camaro is gone, and so are the keys from his pocket he realizes as he violently rifles through it.

Just as realization starts to set in, a car he recognizes as the sheriff's comes skidding around the corner with emergency lights and siren blaring, Lydia's car in tow. In three seconds flat the sheriff has his gun pointed at him; Scott, Kira, Malia, and Lydia approach him warily, along with a dark stranger.

It doesn't take much mental straining to connect Stiles and his missing vehicle to the angry pack challenging him in front of his loft.

"Where is Stiles, Derek?" the sheriff demands from behind the safety of his cop car. Not that that thin piece of scrap metal could really stop Derek.

Derek decides to humor him anyways, raising his hands above his head. "I don't know."

"You don't know?! You were supposed to be with him! Make sure he's okay!"

"I don't know! I must have fallen asleep," he says, skimming around the truth, throwing a quick glance over to Scott and Malia to watch their expressions. They seem to buy his innocence. "I woke up and everything in my apartment was a mess, with Stiles gone, and so is my car."

Scott nods over to Stiles' father, who loosens his stance. "He's telling the truth."

Derek's eyebrows crumble together, jaw ticking.

"What's going on? Why are you looking for Stiles, and who is he?" Derek points to the man dressed darkly.

The man steps forward, despite Scott's movement of protest. "I'm Rabbi Levi Fischer. We're afraid either you or your friend had been taken under possession of an evil spirit, but it looks as if it decided to take your friend Stiles."

Derek swallows, feeling the warming air suddenly freeze over. It feels as if chest had burst open, and then rest of him has turned to ice.

"What do you mean? The nogitsune is back?"

"No, Derek," Levi says, compassion in his bright eyes, "a demon that I am not very familiar with, but in my experience has been referred to as 'The Grand Tormentor'."

"What does that mean?"

"It means we have to find Stiles," Scott says.

 

* * *

 

It doesn't take long to locate Derek's plates in Beacon Hills. Deputy Parrish is already waiting for them outside of a small brick cottage with a grim look on his face, hands resting on his police belt as he leans against the his patrol car.

Derek, he could feel the macabre atmosphere even from down the road, inside the sheriff's patrol car.

"This is Dr. Gallagher's house," John says, mostly to himself.

"Stiles' therapist?"

He nods.

_What could draw Stiles here?_

Most of the pack is silent as they make their way to the front door, except for Parrish and John, who ring the doorbell and mumble to each other about what this could mean for Stiles in the legal system. Malia sniffs the air conspicuously and wrinkles her nose. "It smells like Stiles, but different."

Scott nods his agreement.

When no one answers the doorbell, John knocks firmly on the wood and Parrish presses the button again.

Derek can't feel his hands, but he can smell the blood coming from inside the house.

John pushes the door open slowly, finding every light on, smoke drifting out from the kitchen. They disperse, searching the house. Lydia and Kira go towards the kitchen to find whatever's burning, Malia follows Stiles' scent to the living room, and the two policemen follow Derek as he makes his way towards the rapidly ripening scent of blood, along with Scott and Levi.

The smell of blood outside the bathroom door is sickening. The aroma is so strong he can pick out the constituents that contribute to its make up: plasma, iron, salt. The stench of viscera and brain matter so strong it conquers all other aromas in the hallway.

John nudges the door open with is shoulder, gun in his hands, stance stiff as a sea of red is revealed every inch the door opens. It's as if someone poured buckets and buckets of blood over the floor, into the bathtub. The body of Gallagher lays lifeless on the floor, head smashed open from whatever blow he took, a heavy chunk of ceramic lying next to him--the broken off corner of the sink. The remains of a woman, floating in the dark red liquid in the bathtub paints a lurid scene. Her eyes are vacant, but still hold traces of primal fear, her blond hair soaked in her own blood.

"Jesus Christ," the sheriff breathes, "this couldn't have been Stiles."

"His scent's all over the house," Derek replies.

Levi shakes his head, moving to cover his nose and mouth with a handkerchief he pulled from his pocket. "His body is just a vessel. He's clearly not in control anymore."

"But why Stiles' therapist?" John asks.

"Why anyone? This thing kills senselessly."

"No. This wasn't senseless. This looks like incentive if I've ever seen it."

Scott's eyebrows draw down pensively. "Levi, you said it goes after people the victim loves to torture them right?"

The sheriff shakes his head. "Stiles barely knew this man. He's had one appointment. There's something else here we're missing."

They're interrupted by a soft hissing, almost a whisper, and they're struck silent. All five pairs of eyes trace it to the mere of blood in the tub and watch as it begins to bubble. It should concern Derek that he's not even surprised by scenes like these anymore.  
And then something emerges from the opaque red, shining ripples cascading outward as it reveals itself. A snake. A long, black, blood soaked snake slithers up and over the ridge of the bathtub, and then another, and another.

"Shit!" Scott yelps, jumping backwards along with the rest of them.

Levi's eyes track them with curiosity as they slither through the pool of crimson, leaving scrawling paths to the doorway. They follow them out of the bathroom, but as soon as they reach the hallway, the snakes are nowhere to be found.

"What the hell was that?"

"Shedim," Levi whispers, eyes trained to the end of the hallway. He seems to come out of his trance then, and shakes his head. "Uh, in my culture shedim are demons that are part reptile or serpent. The snake is a biblical villain in most Abrahamic religions. I don't know what they're doing here, though."

No one seems to know how to reply to that.

As if on que Malia interrupts their silence by racing towards them from down the hall. "Guys! I followed Stiles' scent to the backdoor. I think we might be able to catch him." And she's racing back from where she came from and Derek wastes no time following her outside to the backyard, where the purely bodily aroma of Stiles leads through short cut grass.

Derek rapidly makes his way through the yard and into the woods, Scott and Malia hot on his trail. The scent is still fresh, but it's going to rain soon. He can smell the wetness in the air, from the stormy clouds above them hanging low over the leafless canopy.

His feet crunch on the fallen leaves, where twigs and branches lay on the ground, can smell where Stiles' hands had been rubbed on tree after tree creating a nonlinear pattern. This thing is smart, slowing them down this way.

When he's so far into the woods he can't see the lights of the house casting through the trees anymore, it begins to pour.

"No!" he growls, ferociously ripping apart the dead scraps of the forest floor, desperate to grasp onto the scent. Even as the cold heavy raindrops pound his back, drip down his face, he travels vainly through the forest until there is no trace left to follow.

Before he turns and heads back to the house, shoulders slumped, head down, his eyes catch on something in the softening dirt a few feet away. A smiley face, deeply into the dirt, mocking him.

This thing is _playing games_ with them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so late lmao. At first I was like, okay I'll get it published by the 22nd, and then by the 22nd I was like, nah. So at least I got it in this month! WooH! Also I didn't have the patience to edit this like at all, nor do I have a beta, so sorry for all the mistakes oops


	6. Bloodguilt

" _Hide the sun, I will leave your face out of my mind. You should save your eyes. A thousand voices howling in my head. Speak in tongues, I don’t even recognize your face. Mirror on the wall, tell me all the ways to stay away_."

—Phantogram, Black Out Days

 

[ ](http://tinypic.com?ref=169qf7r)

 

 

 

 

 

 

" _Derek,_ " Kira pleads, "you  _have_  to calm down." Her katana has been drawn and the tip of the blade points at Derek menacingly. Parrish and John have their guns drawn and aimed at him as well. As if he cares.

Derek's eyes have frozen over into the piercing blue of his wolf, his claws extended fully, one hand wrapped around Scott's throat ready to rip out its flesh, the other fisted in the front of his shirt. His breathing is rapid, unsteady, like the onslaught of a panic attack. Maybe this  _is_  a panic attack. Maybe he's just given himself over to his primal instincts. He is an omega, after all.

Scott watches silently with his chin tilted up, hands hung loosely at his sides. He hasn't fought back yet, hasn't even flashed his eyes. Derek can't comprehend why. Derek can't really comprehend anything except for placing blame on this poor excuse for an alpha for losing Stiles.

Lydia eyes Kira, taking a careful step closer towards Derek. "Derek, what do you think you're going to do? Do you honestly believe you're going to kill Scott, right now?"

Derek shakes him forcefully, spitting rage from his lips like poison. " _This is his fault!_ "

Lydia shakes her head in disagreement. "Even if this was Scott's fault, do you really think injuring him will help us find Stiles? Kira will shut you down before you even get the chance to really hurt him, and besides, this is only going to hurt our search for Stiles."

Derek takes a deep breath, contemplating the logic behind Lydia's words. His eyes return to their original greenish hue and his claws retract, but his hands remain tight near Scott's throat.

"Stiles would never forgive you if you killed his best friend." 

Those words are what force him to let go.

Scott drops to his feet, feet hitting the wet grass with a splash. They're all still in the backyard of the dead therapist. Things came to a screeching halt when Derek charged out of the treeline towards Scott, eyes glowing, fangs elongated.

Derek's ready for a fight when Scott's eyes finally flash red, but instead, the kid just sighs despondently.

Kira glares at Derek, sword still aimed at him. "You should go."

"No," Scott says, wiping his wet bangs from his forehead angrily. "He stays."

All eyes slide to Scott.

"Derek's right. This is my fault. I cut Stiles out of the pack, he has every right to be pissed at me."

Before anyone can think of a reply, he hangs his head low and trudges back to the cars parked in the driveway, feet splashing in the wet grass. Even Kira looks shocked, her sword falling slightly before she goes after him.

Lydia rolls her eyes and wipes the wet strands of hair from her cheeks. "We're wasting time," she announces determinedly, turning to the sheriff. "We need a plan to find Stiles before anyone else gets hurt."

"Parrish and I need to take care of the mess inside."

She nods and looks back to Derek, her eyes suddenly weary under a frown.

"What now?" Levi asks, shoulders tense with awkward tension. Clearly, he isn't used to never-ending the shit-show that is Beacon Hills.

Malia sniffs. "Stiles would know what to do," she says sullenly.

Lydia lifts her chin with an air of responsibility, her lips pursing. "Levi, go back to Deaton's and see if you can find any more information on this thing. Malia and Derek, check around town to see if you can find anything and keep your phones on. I'll go tell Scott that he needs to get over whatever  _thing_ he's having so he and Kira can actually be useful and help us search.  _Don't_ get separated. This thing may be waiting for us to be weakened so it can make its move. Levi said it would target Stiles' loved ones, and we don't know what this thing is capable of yet. I'll call Liam and make sure to tell him to be with someone at all times."

 

* * *

 

It's an effortless endeavor to slip from the forest and into a nearby café undetected, the heavy rain masking Stiles' natural scent.

Rivulets of rainwater drip down his temples and his neck, his shirt sticks to his chest under the weight. It's entirely too early in the year to be out in the darkness, soaked. Humans are useless, always uncomfortable, always weak.

It's late, but the dining area is still comfortably occupied by customers. There's no one that Stiles seems to recognize, now that he's waking.

It can feel the boy's spirit stretch out from his chest to his fingertips and toes, making his spark flare brightly before dimming down again, like throwing gasoline onto a fire. Stiles' awareness itches in the front of his skull, the kid scratching, writhing to gain control. 

It sits down at the bar, posture loose and relaxed as he drips onto the checkered tile floor. An old woman in a white apron smiles in recognition at the sight of him. It digs into Stiles' subconscious for recognition, but his mental discipline is strong and he remains unwavering. It's a good thing. It likes a challenge. This means more pleasure from beating the kid's spirit into submission, more pride.

"How ya' doin' Stiles?" the woman asks, taking a pen from a gray curl in her up-do and holding it to a pad of paper. "How's your dad?"

"Hi," its eyes flick down to the nameplate pinned to her apron, "Janet. He's great, actually. It's been real quiet around here lately."

"I know, isn't it wonderful? Maybe our quiet little town will finally get taken a notch down on America's deadliest places." She laughs. Stiles flares up again and it almost loses control; its spine shudders with the transference of energy and it has to grip onto the counter just to stay seated on the stool.

"Hey, are you alright?" she asks with a hint of worry, eyeing the way his fingers loosen again on the edge of the counter.

"Yeah, just a little cold."

"Well, no wonder! You look like you just went swimming. Now, why were you out in the pouring rain? I don't have to call the sheriff do I?" she winks. "Always getting into trouble."

"Actually, my car broke down. I was hoping to catch a ride into town since my dad is busy at work."

Janet points her pen across the room to a man hunched over, scribbling into a crossword book in fervid concentration. "My husband can give you a lift. Hey Bill!"

He answers with a grunt, not even bothering to look up from his book.

"Give the sheriff's son a lift into town, will you? It's raining cats and dogs out there and God knows all the good work his father does for our town. And Goddammit when are you gonna' start answering me with full sentences? At least a word or two."

The man closes his book with a sigh of despair, slides out of his booth, and motions for Stiles to follow him out to his pickup truck.

"Where you headin'?" he asks as the door slams shut with a creak. 

"Do you know where the veterinary clinic is?"

The man's bushy eyebrows tilt down as he looks over at Stiles. "'Course I know where that is, son. You feeling alright?"

"Yeah of course." It smiles crookedly when Bill narrows his eyes, slumping back into the seat. "Thanks for giving me a ride."

"Sure thing."

 

* * *

 

When Lydia arrives at Deaton's, Levi and Deaton are rushing to pack away books into his lumpy black backpack.

The rabbi smiles at her politely when he sees her walk in as Deaton remains focused, flipping through the pages of an antique leather journal.

"Are you guys headed somewhere? I came to help with research."

Levi motions to the small pile of books that look beaten and rifled through. "My temple has a much more extensive library and it's only an hour away. We were going to see what we could find there."

"I'm not very familiar with mythology stemming from Abrahamic religions," Deaton adds.

"You should stay in Beacon Hills, help find your friend."

Lydia scoffs, hand tightening around the clutch strung around her body. "I can help you. I'm at the top of my class, I'm accustomed to research."

"Unless you speak Yiddish, Hebrew, or Arabic, I'm afraid you won't be vital to this research," Deaton explains. "I promise you'll be more helpful to the pack if you're here and your banshee leads you to Stiles."

She looks to Levi, eyebrows raised. "I know a little Arabic."

"Dr. Deaton is right. Your biggest concern should be finding Stiles before he turns up dead."

_That is precisely what she is trying to avoid._

They usher her from the building and the only thing Lydia is pleased about is the fact that the sky has opened up, letting the stars' light trickle down leaving the earth to dry. As Deaton and Levi drive off, Lydia's phone vibrates in her purse. The Sheriff.

"Lydia? Where are you?" John's voice is tight and distressed, she can hear an engine whining in the background as he accelerates, his sirens blaring.

"Um, I'm standing outside the animal clinic. Deaton and Levi just left to see if they could find more information."

"Lydia, are you alone?" he asks, tone considerably more alarmed.

Her heart stutters, remembering her words from earlier.  _"Don't get separated."_ How could she be so careless?

"A friend of mine just called me to let me know he gave Stiles a ride into town, to the animal clinic. Said he was acting strange, 'too calm'." Lydia's breath catches in her throat, her entire body stilling. Her eyes scan the areas in her peripheral vision, but the darkness will have veiled anyone in hiding. "Listen, you need to get out of there. Parrish and I are on our way. We've called Derek and Scott, they should be there soon too."

"I haven't seen him," she whispers over the phone. She begins to walk to her car, feigning nonchalance, but the phone to her ear is held in an iron grip and her eyes still slide back and forth, searching for any sudden movement. "He must've known we were inside-"

A hand clamps down over her mouth, yanking her backwards, the other around her throat to bind her voice. The phone is dropped to the wet asphalt with a crack. 

The kind of damp warmth that can only be associated with wet worn clothes soaks through her blouse to her back. She doesn't bother kicking or screaming, instead, going completely lax and latching her teeth onto a few fingers, biting down with force. She expects to be dropped, but instead lips press to her ear, inhale shakily and exhale on a note of pleasure.

"It's only him who feels pain," it says in Stiles' voice, that's just a little too silky smooth to be familiar. "If you're good, I might keep you alive until the finale."

It presses her front up against the smooth surface of the car, the lingering water droplets soaking through her clothes feel like ice. The handbag's strap snaps painfully around her shoulder as he rips it from her and rifles through it for car keys. Her wrists are bound roughly behind her back in something sharp and hard; a zip-tie. A torn piece of cloth is stuffed into her mouth while another tied around her head to keep it in place, muffling any sort of noise she could think to make.

She finally sees him when she's spun around by persistent hands.

Already she sees a difference in Stiles; the dark circles under his eyes, shadows under his cheekbones. He even looks paler.

He ushers her into the backseat and tosses her phone in after, letting it hit her thigh and bounce onto the seat. She glances from the phone to him, confused. He has to know she had a tracker implemented onto her cellphone, specifically for situations like this. He has to know that she was on the phone when he grabbed her. The sheriff is probably watching the tracker right now, waiting to be led to their next location. She doesn't even know if the sheriff had heard the succinct conversation between them.

 _Where_ are _we going?_ she wants to ask, but the words are swallowed up by the cloth that's pressed against her tongue. The strong, bitter taste of detergent almost makes her gag. 

Its eyes meet hers in the rear-view mirror, striking and golden before they bleed entirely black, like the harsh, deadly gaze of a great white. When it sees the thick frame of her eyelashes raise as her eyes widen in trepidation, he chuckles and starts the car.

 

* * *

 

Derek's jaw snaps shut as he breathes out through his nose.

"Are you fucking kidding me? The Jungle?" he says, as he pulls into the parking lot behind the cruiser. He's already had to put up with Malia sniffing in his direction and giving him silent looks of suspicion, now he's going to have to deal with horny strangers and deafeningly loud music. She can't possibly smell Stiles on him, not after all of the blood and the rain, not to mention he remembers how novice she was about using her enhanced olfactory before he left. There's no way.

Malia lets out a groan of her own. "Why do the baddies always go here when we're after them?"

"Sensory overload," Derek replies through his teeth.

Derek slams his door shut as he stalks up to where the Sheriff and Parrish are already heading towards Lydia's car, Scott and Kira in tow.

Incredibly, she's fine.

There's a loose rag hanging around her neck and a crumpled up ball of fabric in her lap when they open the door. She's perched up on the back seat with her bare feet up in the air, her heels strewn across the floor of the car. She'd been attempting to open the door with her toes.

"He's inside!" she bursts out as soon as the door opens. "Go, I'm fine! Before you lose him again!"

Derek, Malia, Scott, and Kira race across the street towards the flickering neon green sign. The entrance is unguarded, something Derek assumes to be a bad omen as he approaches. Sound pours out of the door as he slides it open. He marches in like he's preparing for battle.

They agree to split up into the crowd.

The punishing beat of the bass vibrates in his chest; he can barely hear his own thoughts as he pushes through the pulsating crowd. The strobe lights flicker on and off, showing him new strange faces with every illumination like a stop-motion film. The smell of sweat and alcohol is overwhelming, but he powers on through the crowd, shoving off everyone who rub themselves up on him. 

Then, across the room, he glimpses at a familiar pair of coca-cola eyes flashing in and out with the strobe lights. _Stiles_. Derek strides forward, shoving through a crowd of women huddled around each other to reach him. He's prepared to take him down, gauging his stance in preparation to strike—that is until their eyes meet a from a few feet away and everything just... fades away.

The music turns to record crackle and all Derek can smell is Stiles. Stiles and his stupid, sweet, rich aroma of oranges and cinnamon, chemo-signals lighting up the room like fireworks with happiness and arousal. It's not what he smelled at Gallagher's house, not empty and cruel. 

And suddenly, Derek isn't moving through the crowd anymore, but Stiles is moving towards him. He weaves gracefully through the crowd, eyes locked on Derek's, swaying leisurely to the music like he hasn't a worry in the world.

Everything flies out the window.

Derek can't recall why he came here, or who he was with, or anything other than the fact that Stiles snakes up to him with a sultry grin and immediately presses up against his chest, sweaty and flush. He feels almost faint, like he'd been drugged, the world around him a little less tangible. All there is is Stiles, and no one else, nothing else matters.

"Looking for someone?" Stiles murmurs, deep silken voice clear as a bell.

Derek can't help himself; he buries his nose in Stiles' sweat sheened neck, breathing him in. His hands slide along his lithe form and come to rest in the small of his back, the white fabric of his tank top wrinkling as Derek balls it up in his fists, pulling them flush together so he can feel Stiles in his entirety.

Stiles goes with it easily. Derek can feel teeth latch onto his ear and pull gently, making his skin crawl. His lips wander downwards, close enough to feel hot breath on his neck, not quite enough to touch. His hands wander down Derek's back purposefully, and his hips roll against Derek's like its the only thing the world that has ever, and will ever matter.

He's never seen Stiles behave like this before, never seen him  _move_ like this. He glides and bounces to the music like he's made of it, but it doesn't matter. Derek isn't even sure if the rest of the world exists anymore. Especially when their mouths meet. 

Stiles' kiss is all-encompassing. He pours himself into Derek's mouth, drawing him in with slow sweeps of tongue, the way his lips move—hypnotizing. Fingers curling into Derek's hair tightly, pushing them even closer together, and Derek melts. He can't imagine getting  _closer_ to Stiles than he already is, but he tries, oh god does he try because he's suddenly overwhelmed with the feeling of  _not enough, never enough._

And just when Derek thinks he can have Stiles forever, he's yanked backwards by the collar of his shirt and the world comes crashing down around him. The music is pounding in his ears again, the stench of the crowd invades his nostrils, and he wants to  _fucking scream._

He's prepared to, mouth open, ready to yell when he's faced with Scott, looking dishevelled and flushed.

" _What the fuck?!_ " he yells, ambushing Scott. "Can't you just  _leave us alone?!_ "

"Derek, this is a trap," Scott insists, hands flying up in surrender.

Derek deflates. "What?"

Scott waves his hands up in the air, attempting to gather himself, obviously still agitated from whatever left him in his current state. "This! This is a trap! Kira-she-she just came up to me and-and started-," Derek catches a glimpse of the rose tinting Scott's cheeks. "It wasn't really Kira. Kira would never..."

Derek swivels around half expecting to see Stiles, but it's just a pulsating pool of strangers, and he realizes exactly what Scott's trying to explain.

"Dude, he's in our heads," Scott continues, shouting over the music. "It's messing with us. I don't think he's here anymore, man, we have to find Kira and Malia."

Derek shakes his head. "He's here."

"How do you know? All I can smell is vodka and sex."

"Because why else would he try and distract us?"

Scott's jaw drops in realization.

The music cuts off into silence, and the lights continue to flash and flare wildly onto a crowd that's left with silence, stopping mid-dance to glance around the room with confused expressions.

_Finally. Derek can think._

"Hey! Where'd the DJ go?!" someone shouts from the crowd, and Derek and Scott share a look.

"I'll go find Kira and Malia, you good?"

Derek gives a sharp nod before they're racing in opposite directions.

He climbs up to the empty DJ booth and, unsurprisingly, catches the scent of Stiles, mixed with that emptiness where his chemo-signals should be in place. This time, it's dense, heavy, easy to follow. He traces it through the crowd, catching the scent of freshly spilt blood, just barely beginning to oxidize. He's led to the back rooms, bursting through the privacy curtains until he finds exactly what he was searching for.

A girl, probably barely 21, lays on the floor in a puddle of her own blood, her throat slit. She's not even dead yet, still twitching, gurgling on her own blood in one last primal attempt to take in air. Her headphones are around her ears, the auxiliary wire wrapped around her neck tightly like a choker. And Stiles.  _Stiles.  
_

He's just standing there staring at him, blood on the hands held out at his sides, face blank, heartbeat unnaturally steady. It's so strange, seeing that coldness in his eyes, eyes that used to be so curious and sweet.

Now he just looks like a wild animal.

"Stiles-" Derek chokes, unable to move.

A swift breath escapes him, and Stiles' expression completely shifts. His eyes grow hungry, the corner of his lips twitch upward.

"Do you honestly believe Stiles is here right now?" he asks flatly. "I expected more from you, Hale."

He lifts his crimson coated index finger to his tongue and sucks it into his mouth, eyelids lowering into a lascivious gaze. The action, as it was intended, reminds Derek of his last moments with Stiles, and he can't stop himself. He's overwhelmed with rage.

Derek storms forward, claws extending, fangs dropping, eyes piercing blue. This thing, this  _parasite,_ has hijacked Stiles' body, his domain,  _his Stiles._ And it has the nerve to laugh when it's tackled to the ground, letting Derek raise his clawed hand in preparation to swipe.

"Everything you do to me, you do to your boyfriend."

"How do I even know you're really here?" Derek growls.

"Risk it," it hisses, "I dare you."

Footsteps clamor into the room, undoubtedly Scott and his packmates.

"Derek, no!"

Scott.

"I swear if you kill Stiles-"

He retracts his claws, letting his arm fall limp at his side. 

It's a mistake.

Stiles' hands fly up, fast as lightning, and grip Derek's throat. Stiles' face contorts, eyes bleeding solid black, his lips curl into something between a smile and a snarl, and he vibrates. Stiles shakes violently, his hands tighten, closing off Derek's airways, cutting off his circulation. And it's hot. His hands actually  _burn._ Like  _fire._

Derek doesn't fight it, just chokes and lets his body spasm as it becomes more and more deprived of oxygen. Looking into a face that once belonged to a boy he fell in love with, now consumed with a hideous ecstasy of violence, torture, and rage, he kind of wants to die. He loses everyone he loves in the end.

The last thing he remembers before he blacks out is the acrid smell of burning flesh.

 

* * *

 

When Derek comes to, he's on the Stilinski's living room couch.

He trails his fingers over his throat, finding nothing but smooth, unscathed skin.

Fuck, is that demon made of literal  _fire?_

A cool feminine voice announces her presence. "Oh, good you're awake."

He turns to see Lydia in the doorway in a fresh outfit, hair curled and makeup flawless. She'd look completely put together if it weren't for the small red marks on her wrists, but she still has an aura of exhaustion orbiting her.

Derek must have slept through the night because judging by the bright blue sky outside, it's around mid-day.

"Uh, Stiles-?"

"Is currently restrained and locked in his room with a security camera watching him." She sits on the armrest of the couch and crosses her legs, smiling tiredly at him. "But he's okay, I think. Scott and the rest of the pack are at school for the day."

Derek lifts an eyebrow. "But you're not."

"Straight A's and I got legitimately kidnapped. I think I've earned a day off."

Fair enough. 

Derek sits up and stretches, trying to push away the sour feeling of dread settling in his chest. Stiles had looked the same, smelled the same, felt the same as he remembered, just like he'd felt on top of him less than 24 hours ago, yet he knew, somewhere in the back of his mind that it wasn't Stiles. He's moved different, graceful, purposeful and powerful like a predator, just so utterly not Stiles. Derek had stubbornly pushed the reality aside because he's so  _fucking desperate_ just to be on Stiles' radar.

He'd ignored the truth despite knowing exactly where reality began to feel slanted. Reality is at an equipoise, where Stiles is in trouble, Derek is filled with self-doubt and blame, and one frequently seems to match up with the other.

Lydia and Derek's heads pivot towards the sound of a crash echoing down the stairs suddenly, and Derek can't stop himself from jumping up from his spot on the couch and flying up the stairs. She chases after him, the soft sound of bare feet pressing down into the carpeting an unsettling contrast to the deep caterwaul that's muffled by the walls, coming directly from Stiles' room.

"Derek, wait!"

Derek doesn't bother turning back. Instead, he sees the sheriff, slumped down in a chair just outside of Stiles' bedroom. He lifts his weary face from his hands at the sound of Derek's arrival and stands to blockade the door. He's dressed in his civilian clothes, but his hand still twitches as if to reach for his gun. 

Derek wouldn't care if a thousand bullets went through him, he's still getting in to see Stiles.

"You can't go in there," John warns, eyes laid heavy on Derek. He shakes his head as if to make his words more weighted.

"Why?!" Derek demands, " _You_ should be in there! Did you not just hear that?!"

Lydia clears her throat and stops at the top of the staircase. "He's been like this all night, non-stop. The only person that should be going in there is Melissa, for physical check-ups."

No one's answering his questions, and Lydia's curious glances between him and Stiles' door—how they fade into a look of knowing, only fuel Derek's rage.

He takes a deep breath and tries again through the grinding of his molars. "Why."

Lydia folds her lips into a thin line. She looks satisfied, yet the concern on her expression has tripled in the last few seconds. "Because that's not Stiles in there. I spoke to Deaton on the phone last night, after we captured him."

Derek straightens, casting full attention onto the redhead and away from the sheriff, whose stance is rigid and expression tainted bitter.

"Do you remember the nogitsune? This is... a-whole-nother ball game. This thing, we don't know what it wants aside from all of us dead. All we know is that whatever it is, it's way more powerful than it's trying to lead us to believe. I mean..." she shakes her head, a faint acerbic smile passing across her lips, "if it can burn a hole through your neck with just its hands, we don't know what else it's capable of. We sprayed everything in sight with flame retardant but... something tells me it's humoring us by staying captive. And besides, all it will do is manipulate you if you go in there; we need to wait for Deaton and Levi to come back."

Derek's eyes fade to hazel and his stance loosens, considering her words, still unconvinced.

"Besides," she adds, tones soft, eyes sad and full of sympathy, "you don't want to see what's in there."

Those are the words that seem to set Derek off. He can't go one more single second without making sure Stiles is at least  _alive._ And despite being able to hear the way too slow and steady rhythm of his heart from the other side of the door, he needs to  _see it,_ because there's a noxious cloud of misery and illness surrounding him from every angle and he just  _can't._

So he shoves the sheriff to the side and barges in through the door before either of them can even attempt to stop him and what he sees has him frozen in place.

The first thing he notices his the top of Stiles' head, hair all crazy and unkempt as he's bent over with his wrists bound together in handcuffs, chained to a heavy wood installment nailed to the floor. From what he can see under the low light, is the way his muscles strain, just from existing, as if every single one of them were tense with rage.

The windows are poorly boarded up, and Derek can see in between the thin streaks of light where the glass had been shattered. Thick, puffy quilts and comforters surround him on the floor where he's sitting. Most of his furniture has been pushed to the far side of the room out of his reach. One of the legs of the bedpost has been snapped off, and the desk has collapsed in the middle. Chips of splinters and wood are littered around the perimeter of the ruined furniture.

Stiles sits up, slowly, so Derek is forced to experience the moment almost in slow motion.

He's restrained under the gauging, cat-like gaze of whatever is dwelling within Stiles. The only light in the room pours in from the doorway Derek is currently frozen in, leaving the room behind him mostly cast in shadow, the sharp lines and edges of Stiles' figure blackened and ominous. Black and blue spots are scattered up his arms, on his neck, one on his cheekbone.

Stiles' pale, chapped lips raise into a caustic smirk as he greets him with an unsettling, " _Hello_." It looks amused more than anything.

She was right. This thing isn't Stiles.

The soft touch of a hand on his shoulder rips him away from his stupor.

"Hey," Lydia whispers, "Derek, let's talk downstairs, okay?"

Derek nods and steps back, eyes never leaving Stiles' as Lydia cuts off his view by shutting the door. She nods at the sheriff once, and he nods back, watching her guide Derek back towards the stairs. He shrugs her off with a glare as he descends down the stairs.

They end up in the kitchen, away from the sheriff's curiosity, where the light streaming in from the windows is a stark contrast to the gloom and doom of where the shedim resides.

Derek steadies himself against a counter, shoulders tensed up to his ears with a scowl. Lydia keeps her distance out of respect, crossing her arms over her chest across the room. 

"Scott told me about the hallucinations he had, as well as Kira and Malia, about how they were seduced to distract from Stiles' presence in the club," Lydia broaches, carefully, assessing gaze cataloging Derek's every reaction. "Scott hallucinated Kira, Kira Scott, Malia saw Stiles. They all saw people they were in love with, or at least, attracted to."

Derek stares at the floor and doesn't make a sound.

"If I were to ask if you saw the same thing Malia did, would you tell me?"

Before Derek has time to answer, another loud bang rattles the house, followed by another deep roar. He flinches, squeezing his eyes shut as if it could block out his current reality. It's enough to tell Lydia everything she needs to know.

She nods to herself, her lips curling down at one corner. "Okay."

"What?"

"I said okay. We can't tell anyone, it'll only complicate the situation."

"I know, but what are we supposed to do now?"

Lydia shrugs and sighs, and even her makeup can't cover the exhaustion on her face then.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter turned out completely different from what I had originally planned lmao. OOOps.  
> I'm sorry this took so long I've been insanely busy. Also sorry for the aesthetics going so long without being fixed, they're not really that important i just like doing them lol. Photobucket was finna charge me 400 dollars a year to use third part hosting. Like, lolk SURE.  
> So bad news, well bad news for anyone who likes reading this, good news for me. I am going on a road trip at the end of July, and I'll be on the road for about two months. which means my writing will slow down considerably. I'll try to update one more chapter after this before I leave (no promises, but I'll try), and I'll also try to update while I'm on the road since I'm pretty sure I'll be taking my laptop, but like, I'm going to be enjoying the great outdoors of the rugged American terrain so who has time for fanfiction amiright? No but for real, I'll be half living in my car for the trip, and the rest camping and couch surfing, so writing will be very difficult. Expect Chapter 8 probably sometime in mid September, possibly even later. I don't know. We'll see what happens.  
> I'll finish this eventually.  
> Thank you so much to everyone who's been keeping up with this and giving kudos. Thank you extra so soo much to everyone who leaves comments (:: I'm super awkward and sometimes don't know what to say but any and all feedback is truly appreciated and motivates me to keep writing. <3 <3 <3


	7. One by One, Into the Darkness

"Hell is empty and all the devils are here."

—William Shakespeare, _The Tempest_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The hours drag on as if Derek were drifting out at sea; sure time passes, slowly, but with every waking moment, he feels farther and farther away from anything he can hold onto to keep from drowning. He can hear the beat of Stiles' heart, but can't see him, can't smell him anymore. Only his basic bodily odor is left, but behind the rest is a black void of nothingness, as if the demon were draining Stiles' body of everything that makes him Stiles.

Eventually, Lydia has to go to check in at home, and though she'd looked regretful to leave Derek alone with the wrath of a terrified father who believes Derek's at least partly to blame, she'd smelled of relief on the way out the door. It's obvious she hadn't slept for far too long and needed a well-deserved sleep.

So Derek mostly stays downstairs while John keeps watch upstairs. He paces, he listens, he sits and grumbles, not even bothering to try to concentrate on something other than Stiles.

Derek hears the car pulling into the Stilinski driveway and he leaps to his feet from the couch and rushes to the door.

His mind has been drifting all day, circling around made-up solutions from things he's seen in pop-culture. He'd pictured Stiles' head spinning all the way around like an owl and green projectile vomit, the splashing of holy water and sacred passages read from the Torah. Not that it would have anything to vomit up; it has refused to eat unless it was let go. He wants an immediate solution, though he knows it's unlikely.

When he opens the front to see Deaton, alone, walking up to the porch, it's clear that an immediate solution is out of the question.

"Where's Levi?" Derek asks, shutting the door behind the doctor as he enters.

Deaton turns with a terrifyingly blank expression and answers, "We can't perform an exorcism on Stiles. Levi and all of the members of his synagogue refuse to participate any longer."

"What?" Derek's stomach sinks to the floor. That's it. Those are the words that seal Stiles' fate. And suddenly, with the newly found emptiness in Derek's chest, he's suddenly filling with white-hot rage. It takes all his strength not to tear the man in front of him apart for just giving up. "Why," he grinds out through his teeth, clenching his fists at his sides so tight he can’t feel his fingers.

Deaton breezes past him up the stairs. He doesn't turn back to face Derek as he says, "Because Stiles isn't fully human. I'll explain when Scott's pack gets here."  
The last to arrive is Liam, about an hour and a half after Deaton had arrived. They all stand crowded in the living room, including the sheriff, leaving Stiles to only be monitored by the sharp hearing of the wolves occupying the house

"I believe Stiles has the spark," is the first thing Deaton says when they're all silent and waiting for him to speak.

When he makes no sign of explaining, Kira shyly raises her hand like a young student. "Um… spark?"

"Also known as the divine spark. A magical element of the soul that is embedded so deeply it reaches a physical element. Some religions believe it to be a piece of god; in my experience, it is just pure magical essence. The demon currently inhabiting Stiles doesn't have the strength to conjure up the powers that it displayed when it burnt a hole through Derek's neck. The spark is tethered to Stiles' being so whatever is in him has access to it too, so long as it realizes it's there. Clearly, this thing did."

Scott shakes his head at the floor. "So that means Stiles is a wizard or something?"

"No, not exactly. The spark is an ability, it is the spark that ignites magic, however, it doesn't make Stiles anything. The spark is there, but you don't have to use it or even acknowledge that it's there. This ability makes him a little more than human, though. To be honest, I was sure Stiles would deny it forever, but if the demon can get ahold of it and bend it to its will, the spark must be closer to the surface than I previously thought."

"What does that mean for Stiles right now, though?" Lydia asks after a few moments.

Deaton nods his head to himself, eyes focusing into a deep concentration. "We can't perform an exorcism. It's too dangerous. The exorcism could untether Stiles from his spark and that would ultimately drain him of his life force."

Scott bursts through the silence with wild determination and disbelief. "So we're just supposed to let him die like this? My mom says he's starving to death! And if we let him go, it'll get Stiles to kill himself! You heard what Levi said!"

The look Deaton levels Scott should have been humiliating for him, but he was too wrapped up in his ire to notice.

"It can leave whenever it wants. I'm not sure why it hasn't killed any of you yet or just left, but fire retardant and handcuffs aren't enough to keep it captive. It wants to be here… for some reason."

"But how do we get Stiles back?" John pushes.

"Chaos magic," Deaton supplies, pointedly. "A type of magic practiced by a sect of Gnosticism. To be precise a banishing ritual. Levi was kind enough to find the right supplies and books for this, but he's shunned us for the time being."

He quickly leaves the room and comes back with a leather-bound book at least four inches thick and a foot in length.

Deaton's book drops onto the coffee table with a loud thud, dust puffing out from between the pages as if it hasn't been opened in years. It probably hasn't.

"Levi's community refuses to be involved in this ritual, so you're on your own," he explains as he flips through the thick tea stained pages. "Gnosticism is based on the Kabbalah, but when it comes down to it, it's dark magic."

"Gnosticism," Lydia breathes, seemingly in understanding.

"You've heard of it?"

"Only a little. I used to set up magic squares as riddles to solve. I always thought it was just a game, but…"

"They'll be vital in this ritual."

Malia scoffs from behind them, staring at the book with a look Derek interprets as malice. "What the hell is a magic square?"

"A grid puzzle, where each number has to be different, but it has to add up equally backward, forwards and diagonally."

Malia turns away, most likely to roll her eyes, and crosses her arms over her chest.

Deaton clears his throat before continuing. "Everything you need to know is either in this grimoire or the translations he's supplied for us in journals," he says, stopping at a page showered in symbols emblazoned in black ink, archaic Latin bordering the page like a fancy header. "The rest of the supplies you will need are in my car, but first we have to see who will be completing the ritual."

Scott and the sheriff raise their hands but Deaton shakes his head at them.

"You don't choose to do the ritual, it has to accept you."

And with that, Deaton picks up the book, flips a few pages and mumbles an incantation as he withdraws a velvet pouch from his pocket. He empties the pouch onto the table, smooth round stones clattering against the wood as they bounce across the table.

"Everyone pick up a stone and hold it in your fist."

Everyone does as told, cluttering around the table to pick up a stone.

After a moment, once everyone has picked a stone, Lydia, Scott, and Derek all hiss in pain. Derek's palm burns like it's being seared. His reaction is to immediately drop the rock to the floor and check his hand. In the center is a triangle branded into his palm. The flesh, red and tender, begins to heal rapidly, so he holds out his hand for Deaton to examine, as well as Scott who has a triangle emblazoned into his palm as well, but with a line bisecting it, and Lydia who has a triangle like Derek, but upside down.

"What does that mean?" Scott asks, flexing the muscles in his hand to relieve the lingering pain as the last of the shape fade away.

"Nothing happened," Malia says with a tiny frown above her eyes, lips puckering in confusion. Malia, John, Kira, and Liam all drop their stones back onto the table, hands unscathed.

"It means, Scott, that you were chosen, as well as Lydia and Derek."

John steps forward, aggressive and demanding. "What do you mean they were chosen!? I can't be there for my own son when he's like this?"

"You cannot, not for this. The procedure requires specific skills and drives to complete. You'll understand when it's done."

John doesn't argue, but his face grows darker and he turns to Derek with the promise of rage in his eyes.

Things move fast from there, with Deaton insisting they can’t afford to waste any more time.

The pack that hadn't been chosen is tasked to haul in the supplies from Deaton's car while Deaton gives a brief overview of the ritual they'll be doing.

Out of the entirety of the grimoire, this particular ritual takes up about twenty-nine pages of pure archaic Latin and strange symbols. He bookmarks the pages for Lydia and slides the black leather-bound journals towards Derek and Scott.

"There are five stages to this ritual: Purification, Preparation, Shifting of Consciousness and Unification, Opening the Doorway, and the final stage, Banishment," Deaton explains, absorbed in the texts before him. "The basics are translated in those journals for you, Derek and Scott, to read. Lydia, you'll use the original grimoire since you can actually read it. It's much more detailed than the translations as I've been told. I've also been told that this ritual can sometimes take upward of three months."

Scott's jaw drops and he raises his hand, but he doesn't wait for Deaton to give him permission to speak. He just blurts out, "Uh, three months? We… uh… school? Isn't there a plan B?"

"This _is_ plan B, idiot," Lydia hisses.

"That is why I will be putting this house under a cloaking spell," Deaton offers. "Once I've cast the spell, it will go into effect when the sun goes down. Everything that goes inside this house will go on unseen, unheard, and unknown by anyone not inside the house at the time the spell was cast. On the outside, it will last from nightfall to sunrise, but on the inside… time will cease to exist. It could feel like days, weeks, months. You will not age and you will not need food or water, the price is that your supernatural powers will disappear for the time being. While the demon will cease to have access to Stiles' spark, it will retain its own abilities."

By the time Deaton's finished speaking, the kitchen looks like it's been turned into a witch's den. Bags of herbs and powders are piled high on the counter, the table filled with supplies such as silver-rimmed glasses, daggers, candles, chalk, paint brushes. Jugs of water are placed under the table to conserve space and a strange horn, an actual ram's horn is placed carefully in the center of the table where it commands attention.

Runes are carved on every doorway leading to the outside of the house and elderberry ash is rubbed into the markings. Everyone files out, some more reluctant than others, and the three of them are left alone in the house while Deaton mumbles incantations to himself, pouring salt around the house so it almost circles it completely. He stops just before completing the circle, pausing just in in front of the front porch while the three of them watch.

The house is eerily silent and Derek can't help but be painfully aware of the demon's presence for every single second that passes.

"Once I seal this circle, you cannot step out of its boundary until the ritual is complete. I cannot stress this _enough._ Because this evaporates time, if you cross this boundary, time will cycle around to the moment I sealed it again. You'll be stuck in an endless loop forever."

Before anyone can ask any questions or give any remarks, he picks up the bucket of salt and completes the circle. The moment the salt hits the grass, he disappears, as well as everyone else outside. It's as if every living thing has vanished from the outside world.

At that moment, the realization that he is trapped in a timeless paradox with a banshee, a hard-headed alpha, and a demon truly sinks in.

 

* * *

 

Derek jumps at the chance to see Stiles as soon as no one is actively trying to stop him.

He sneaks upstairs, feet heavy with fear of what he _knows_ he's going to find, which is very much not Stiles. There are runes carved into the frame of his doorway, the only threshold that had been sealed that doesn't lead to the outside. The door only needs a gentle push for it to swing open with a creak. The demon's honey brown eyes cut to Derek's with a razor sharp grin; the pupils expanding like ink dripping into a pool of milk, filling his iris and spreading out into the whites of his eyes until they're entirely black, like two smooth marbles of onyx. The sight makes Derek's skin crawl because those eyes and that smile repeat exactly what Deaton had said, _'It can leave whenever it wants.'_ It thinks, possibly knows that it is in control of the situation, or at least wants everyone to believe it is.

His wrists are still bound as they have been, looking paler and thinner, skin stretched over his skeleton like elastic.

Derek hears Lydia approach before she slides around the corner to block his view of Stiles.

"We need to start preparing for the first stage of the ritual," she orders, motioning towards the hallway. "We have a lot of work to do tomorrow, so we should get started as soon as the sun hits the horizon."

The demon cackles, voice several octaves lower than Stiles' typical voice, but his scratchy timber still vaguely present.

"There's not going to be a tomorrow," it says knowingly around another grin. Strangely it sounds more like a statement of fact than a threat.

Derek's hit with a waft of anxiety when Lydia turns to glance at it. She recovers quickly, though, realizing Derek could sense her emotions and pulls on his wrist to tug him out of the room.

"Come on. If he was going to kill us, he would have done it already."

He has a suspicion that she doesn't truly believe that, and neither does he. It doesn't matter; that's not why he was watching Stiles. He just misses him. He misses him with an ache that could almost rival how he misses his deceased family.

 

* * *

 

"We have to purify ourselves," is the first thing Lydia says when all three of them are dispersed around the kitchen.

The sun is hanging low in the sky, fifteen minutes away from sunset, fat and orange in its glow. She's hunched over the kitchen table, hands buried in her soft red hair as her elbows rest on the table, eyes glued to the ancient leather-bound book in front of her.

"How do we do that?" Scott asks, sitting cross-legged on the counter.

"It says we have to poison ourselves," she answers, grim.

"What? How?"

"Wormwood."

"That's not gonna' poison Derek and me."

Derek rolls his eyes and says flatly, "We won't have our abilities once the sun sets, remember?"

Lydia crushes the herb with the mortar and pestle Deaton supplied them with into a fine powder. She divides it in three, pouring a section in each of the silver-rimmed glasses and stirred it in with warm water until the water was murky green. When Derek reaches to grab his glass, ready to gulp it down, she places her hands over the glasses to stop him.

"The sun hasn't set yet," she explains, "and we're likely to hallucinate. We have to give Stiles a dose of anesthetic so he stays under while we're… being purified."

Derek looks over his shoulder towards the kitchen window. The sun is just over the horizon, casting the sky in brilliant pastel colors. Lydia disappears and reappears in the kitchen several minutes later, assumedly to have given Stiles his shot.

It's tense and quiet when she returns. Lydia busies herself with memorizing the ritual, while Scott fiddles with his glass of wormwood solution. Derek stares out the window, unwilling to speak. They're all afraid of what's to come, especially since Lydia isn't too forthcoming with the procedures of the ritual. Scott had asked her what a certain translation meant in his journal and Lydia had shrugged, unable to look at either Scott or Derek.

They know it's time when the sky darkens to its deepest blue and the sky is void of any stars or moon. Just endless nothing.

"Should we cheers?" Scott asks as he readies his glass in his right hand. He doesn't show any signs of cheerfulness; none of them do. They clink glasses anyway and down the bitter liquid as quickly as they can. It burns on the way down from his tongue to his stomach.

Lydia clears her throat in a clear attempt to keep from gagging and sits elegantly in front of the grimoire. Scott's still in his corner coughing up a fit.

Her finger glides across the page along the lines or archaic Latin, eyes following it precisely. The text is so small and delicate that Derek is mildly impressed she can read it with such ease.

"We have to follow the guidelines of the Nazarene Gnostic moral belief systems. 'To lead an existence of pure rectitude.' No sex, no drugs, no alcohol or caffeine, no lying and all actions must be driven by pure intentions. At least until the ritual is complete."

"No problem," Scott manages through another cough. "Is that it?"

"For tonight."

 

* * *

 

The hallucinations start much later than Derek had expected.

He's sat in John's office downstairs on the floor in the corner, enjoying his isolation with a book he'd found by candlelight. The power had stopped working when the sun had crossed the horizon and they weren't able to turn it back on despite their best efforts fiddling with the fuse box. Not just wired electricity, either. Battery powered appliances wouldn't turn on or just shut off completely, including flashlights, the clocks, cell phones, etcetera.

So Derek's sitting there, flipping a page under the orange glow he has to squint his eyes to read when suddenly he sees a figure stroll past the open doorway. It's low to the ground, shadowy, and quick.

He focuses hearing to listen around the house, and where his senses would be filled with the heartbeats of the three other people in the house, the creaking of the wood under the wind, there's nothing.

Right. His werewolf abilities have been muted for the time being.

Derek has to actually _stand up_.

He grumbles, hefting himself up by his hands and walks over to check the hallway.

It's empty, but he knows he saw something. It's an incredibly frustrating experience to have his extra-heightened senses gone, no longer able to sense when an enemy is nearby.

"Scott? Lydia?"

No one answers and the house is silent. He huffs, turns back around, but freezes at the sight before him.

Cora, nine years old, in her cotton candy pink pajamas with banana print is looking up at him with wide brown eyes.

"Derek," she says, voice high and sleepy as she clutches her stuffed wolf, "can you read me a bedtime story?" Cora never had a stuffed wolf.

Unable to think of what to say, jaw hanging slack, he shakes his head in answer.

Cora pouts, her bottom lip jutting out into an adorable little curl. "But I can't find mommy or daddy, and Laura's not here either."

Derek takes a deep breath in and out, closes his eyes and tries not to smell the smoke that's beginning to cloud the air. He knows it's not real. _It's not real._

He says as much, rubbing his fists into his eyes and struggling to block out the hallucination. "You're not real."

When he opens his eyes again, Cora's got an angry frown drawing her eyebrows together. Ash is beginning to stain her face black and her clothes are disintegrating at the seams from the flames crawling up her body. Nausea wracks Derek's body. He can hear the crackle of the fire, smell the smoky burn of wood around him, but she is the only thing on fire.

"That's not a very nice thing to say."

The stuffed wolf in her arms begins to breathe; it's polyester stomach expanding and receding in breath while Cora's skin flushes red and begins to sizzle.

Derek gags once before he's rushing to the nearest bathroom, collapsing over the ceramic bowl and emptying the contents of his stomach. The distant howling of wolves keeps him company in his sickness.

He spends the rest of the night bent over the downstairs toilet vomiting, mostly just hideous yellow bile that shows he hasn't eaten enough. He passes out on the floor eventually, the dark room spinning in his vision.

When he wakes, he wakes with a pounding headache. Mostly, he wakes because something keeps jabbing into his sides and he growls in warning when he realizes it's someone's foot.

He opens his eyes with a groan to see Lydia standing over him, looking just about the same way he feels—no makeup, dark circles under her tired green eyes, messy red hair only contained with one long braid, her skin pasty and sunken in places.

"Get up," she croaks, "we have to get started."

With that, she pads away.

Derek rolls over onto his stomach and stubbornly decides he's going to fall back asleep right where he is, on the cold tile floor. God, he's never felt this awful in his life without someone else actively inflicting pain on him. And it gets worse every dragging second as he's reminded it won't go away anytime soon. He heals at the same rate as an average human, now.

He thunks his forehead onto the floor with a fitful groan and startles when he doesn't hear or smell Scott pass.

"Lydia's gonna' kill you if she finds you here," he grumbles, not even bothering to pause as he drags his feet down the hall.

It's still dark and without his night vision, Derek has to stumble around, using his hands to feel his way along the walls until he sees a flickering orange glow emanating from the kitchen. There's a fat wax candle with a high bright flame just in front of the old grimoire, illuminating the text for Lydia to squint in concentration at. Scott's sat on the counter rubbing his eyes, mumbling something close to, "Are we dead? I feel like shit."

Lydia levels him with a glare and pointedly ignores him. She's piling supplies onto the table out of reach from the candle's flame.

"Is the rest of the ritual going to be this terrible?" Scott asks.

"Yes," she answers succinctly without the slightest pause in her work. "We have roughly about two hours until Stiles wakes up. Preferably, we should get the second stage finished before he wakes up," Lydia continues after another minute. "The symbols that were burned into our hands correlate with the four alchemical elements and directions." She holds out her hand where the burn has left a healing scar in the shape of a triangle pointing down to her wrist. "Mine's West. What were yours?"

"Just a regular triangle," Derek says, "but it was pointing towards my fingers."

"And mine was like Derek's, but a line through it."

"Derek, you're South, and Scott you're East. That leaves us the North…"

Scott makes one of his trademarked confused faces. "Does that mean Stiles is North?"

She straightens up and lets out a long breath, holding up a hammer and bag of nails in each of her hands. "No one is North. We have to nail shut every single window and doorway facing that direction."

"Is that it?"

"No. Every mirror has to be covered. We have to find and prepare the altar room, as well as the meditation rooms. Then we have to bring Stiles into the altar room."

"What do you mean _'find'_ the altar room?" Derek queries.

Lydia looks back down to the book and reads out loud, "It says, 'The base of the building should provide the stronghold for a sufficient altar room.'"

"Basement?"

"That's what I was thinking."

Scott raises his hand to interrupt but speaks up regardless of Lydia's rolling eyes. "Uh, there's no way we can get all that done in two hours."

"Not if you keeping bitching about it instead of getting started," Derek gripes, reaching over to toss him a hammer, by which Scott rushes forward to catch but misses. It tumbles to the ground with a loud crack.

As it turns out, Scott was right.

They'd had to rummage through the house for a compass to find which way faced North, but the hand spun uncontrollably this way and that, leaving them to rely on memory. Finally, Scott says that Stiles' bedroom faces east because the sunrise would wake him up early sometimes when he'd slept over. From there Lydia had figured out which way was North and supplied everyone with hammers and a fistful of nails.

Two hours passed before they'd finally finished nailing everything shut facing north and by the end of it Derek's fingers burned at the tips and his hands ached.

On his way to the upstairs bathroom, he passes Stiles' room and sees him wide awake, staring out from the darkness of his room. It's hard to make out the details of his face, but it seems like every time Derek sees him, he gets thinner. He bets that if he had his sensitive sense of smell, he'd start to smell death on his skin.

It takes a considerably less amount of time to cover all of the mirrors in the house, and that leaves them to prepare the altar room.

In the basement, Scott sets tealights out along the perimeter of the spaces, larger candles dispersed in specific areas for better sight. Lydia draws one large circle on the floor and then erases it several times to restart. According to the diagram in both the grimoire and their translations, the circles of protection must be perfectly circular. Around the first large one, she draws three smaller circles; one facing South, East, and West.

Lydia rolls Scott and Derek each a stick of chalk across the floor and tells them to copy the symbols from their journals exactly, drawing them onto the floor around their circle until it completes another outer circle. She finishes hers quickly and walks around, telling Derek to erase several of the symbols and restart at least three times. At one point Derek breaks the stick in half between his aching fingers and growls in frustration.

He's about two seconds away from snapping at Lydia, but he knows better. He knows everything has to be perfect.

His hands shake, unaccustomed to the growing ache from overuse and stress. Scott's begun to wheeze on occasion, and somewhere in the back of Derek's mind, he worries that his asthma has resurfaced now that his super-healing is gone. Finally, after about another two hours of work, Lydia is satisfied with their symbols and Scott is tasked to bring Stiles down into the basement.

A few minutes later Scott comes back down, disheveled and furious, sporting a hefty bitemark on his bicep. He focuses his glare on Derek while he talks to Lydia.

"He won't come down. He says he'll only come down if Derek comes and gets him."

Lydia either doesn't notice the ire in Scott's eyes, or perhaps it's betrayal, or she pretends not to. She only nods at Derek once to go and retrieve him.

The walls are dusty, hard and brittle concrete surrounding them as well as the floor. The ceiling is just exposed beams and insulation. It's cold and Stiles is wasting away. Stiles needs warmth, water, food, a bed, but he does as he's told and heads up to the bedroom where the demon appears to have expected him.

"My prince," it cries, "you've finally come to rescue me from my tower!"

It sounds remarkably like Stiles, but it's getting easier to remember how very different the thing inside him is with the way Stiles' body is beginning to wither away.

"Break the handcuffs," Derek says, "I know you can."

A grin splits Stiles' face into harsh lines under his protruding cheekbones. "Aren't you the clever one," it says, breaking the chain that links its handcuffs with ease. "Well, not as clever as the pretty redhead he's so utterly in love with."

It's a blow to the chest for Derek, but he does his best to hide his reaction, leaning down to pick Stiles up bridal style.

It buries Stiles' face into the warmth of Derek's neck and the cold flesh almost stings.

"You're _my_ favorite, though," it purrs, "so full of grief and rage. I could eat you _right up_."

It opens Stiles' mouth to lick a long stripe up Derek's neck, chapped, dry lips rubbing the sensitive skin in a way that gets Derek to shiver out of discomfort. He can feel two rows of teeth gently close around his throat, and he freezes at the top of the stairs wondering if he'd survive if it decided to rip his throat out with its teeth. Ironic, considering that's one of the very first threats Derek had made to Stiles, one of many he regrets, and now he's got Stiles' teeth wrapped around his jugular and he can't heal rapidly anymore.

For a moment, Derek thinks that he's about to die, kicking himself for allowing this situation to happen, but then it leaves an open-mouthed kiss just under his jaw and says, "Why would I kill my favorite? The fun is just about to begin," as if it could read his thoughts.

He starts back down the stairs, staring forward, kicking the thought of Stiles still being in love with Lydia out of his thoughts because that's the last thing he needs to be focusing on.

Lydia instructs him to place Stiles in the largest circle, in the center of the other three. There's still a small break in the circle, where Derek can enter, but after it's placed on the floor Lydia rushes up to seal the circle with finesse. She backs up from the circle, pointing the chalk at the demon.

"Don't even try to leave the circle."

It sits up and crosses its legs, not bothering to make an attempt to test the boundary. It doesn't seem to be bothered at all by a ritual meant to expel it.

"So naïve," it tisks. "You think I haven't seen kids like you try to complete a ritual of this magnitude? You won't make it past the third stage."

Suddenly, all of the tea lights in the room blow out, along with every pillar in the room, except for one. The candle closest to the center circle still illuminates Stiles' ominous grinning face in flickering orange. An obvious scare tactic.

Even in the darkness, Derek can see Lydia's jaw tense shut.

"Come on, we have to finish preparing the meditation rooms," she snaps.

She heads for the stairs, but before she can make it up the first step, Stiles' voice fills the room as the last candle goes out.

"Who would have expected you three to be so willing to throw yourselves over the cliff of sanity? How fun it will be to watch you fall, one by one, into the darkness…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so y'all know, I'm pretty sure the actual Gnostic religion doesn't practice chaos magic but a different kind that is pretty off limits to someone who isn't Gnostic (me), and is therefore impossible to find any detailed information on. Both are very real things that exist and that people practice. I dug myself into a very deep hole of research and the magic I used in this chapter and the next is pulled from both Gnostic belief (meditation, isolation, blood magic) and chaos magic is very much rooted in the power of symbols and sigils and a lot of herbal remedies that induce altered states. Shit's pretty interesting. Also super intense.  
> Forgive me if I got anything wrong. Also correct me in the comments, if not to better my story than to just let me know because I like knowing things (:  
> THANK YOU SO MUCH TO EVERYONE WHOS STUCK WITH THIS EVEN THOUGH IT TOOK ME FOREVER TO UPDATE BECAUSE IVE BEEN GALLAVANTING ALL OVER THE COUNTRY!!!! <3 <3 <3  
> P.S. I'm in New Mexico atm so holla at mah readers in NM if there are any!!! Tomorrow I'll be in Texas :P


	8. The Twilight Zone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so a lot is going on in this chapter. I am very much going to warn you that there is mention of rape and a few descriptors of it. It gets really dark really fast. Also there is a scene where the demon sort of makes fun of suicidal tendencies? And also Lydia is insensitive about learning disabilities, but like, that's pretty in her character amirite ladies? SORRY I REALLY WANTED TO THOROUGHLY WARN YOU BEFORE READING.  
> In other news, are we getting Stiles back this chapter?? Who knoowwwsss ;)

"The restlessness of sleepless nights digs trenches where the corpses of memory are rotting."

 —Emil Cioran, Tears and Saints 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The sound of Lydia's chalk against the hardwood is grating at best, but her movements are graceful and sure, and she easily draws a perfect circle around the sacred geometrical symbol Derek had drawn a few minutes before.

Derek knows a bit about sacred geometry. He knows that in the fantastical world of magic, sacred geometry is a way to honor the creation of existence, another way to bend the universe to your will, and a carrier of secret information about existence. His family hadn't lived long enough to teach him the intricacies that went into practicing it but he remembers the large, beautiful symbol carved into the living room wall in reverence, like a family portrait. It was one of the first things to burn in the house, left in ruin and unrecognizable.

Unsurprisingly, Derek hadn't known nearly as much as he thought he had. His family library was reduced to ashes and books on this sort of thing were few and far between.

Scott's meditation room has been finished, and he'd needed extra tutoring on the mathematics of completing a magic square and igniting the magic within it. Math had never been too much of a challenge for Derek, most scholarly things aren't, however, the concentration that he knows is going to be required of him for the third stage is a different story.

When she finishes the circle she lifts her hand from the floor with an embellished swish and struts out to the hallway where Scott is waiting for them to finish.

"I'm going to cut right to the chase." Lydia's shoulders hunch up high and her posture is held tight and rigid, making her look twice as small as she typically does. Derek and Scott move to stand outside of their respective meditation rooms on opposite ends of the hall, Lydia in between leaned up against the opposite wall to address both of them simultaneously. "You guys are going to have to get naked for this."

Derek reaches for the bottom of his Henley to strip but Lydia's following glare stops him.

" _Not now!_ " she barks, swatting her hands in his direction. "Wait till I've left. As cute as you are, we have a lot of work to do and besides, I don't poach other people's incentives. I'm better than that." Derek lowers his head and scowls at the girl. "Oh _please_ , asceticism is not attractive, honey."

She flips her hair over her shoulder and raises her eyebrows towards Scott when she notices his jaw has dropped.

"What are you two even talking about?"

Lydia just rolls her eyes and sighs. Tossing Scott his journal, she manages to suppress another eye roll as he fails to catch it, letting it tumble to the ground and land next to a jug of water she'd placed in front of each of their rooms. "Pure, fresh, natural spring water from an organically flowing source. We're all going to have to strip and ritually wash from head to toe. Hair, legs, face, every part of our bodies has to be washed with _this_ water. Don't redress, because your clothes haven't been soaked in it and we don't have enough, so we're just going to have to deal with being naked and wet and most likely freezing during this part of the ritual.

"What happens next is pretty self-explanatory, hence the name 'meditation room', focus your energy. Stay inside the circles I've drawn you until you've shifted consciousness, follow the directions in your journals. If shit goes pear-shaped Deaton's not here to pull you back to reality, so… don’t fuck up."

"How are we supposed to know when we've shifted consciousness?" Scott queries, already reaching for the jug.

"Trust me you'll know," Lydia assures him, briskly turning and making her way down the stairs. "Wait in the kitchen when you've finished, that's where we'll meet once we've all shifted consciousness. I'll explain where we go from there."

When Derek glances towards Scott, the young alpha is regarding him with apprehension.

Neither of them has any idea of what they're doing; just following the vague and poetically worded instructions in their translation journals and Lydia, hoping desperately for some positive change to let them know they're doing _something right._ They've already put in a considerable amount of work and neither him nor Scott is completely sure if this ritual will even work.

But he can't think that way.

They have no other option.

Derek turns his back towards Scott and strips down until he's nothing but skin. The water is freezing, but he lets it soak through his hair and drip down his chest, smearing it over every crevice of his body just as he's been instructed. He can hear Scott behind him, shivering and clumsily bending to reach the bottoms of his feet, everything muffled by his human hearing. When he turns back towards Scott, he's gone. He's entered his meditation room to begin and closed the door behind him. Derek does the same, with the onset of the heavy weight of anxiety crushing his chest.

He lights the white taper candles and tea lights placed precisely about the room and around his circle of protection. Inside the circle, where Derek kneels down to sit cross-legged, there are intricate patterns drawn with the utmost attention to detail, the meanings of which he barely understands. Rocks, dried leaves and flowers, and handfuls of earth are scattered around the room strategically placed. Every detail matters, even which direction the room faces has been accounted for.

His journal is open in front of him, a page scarcely filled, and a bowl of ground up root only found in sub-Saharan Africa called Ibogaine. _Figures._

In the illustration on the page in front of him, it shows a match dropping into the bowl. So Derek lights a match and drops it into the bowl in front of him without hesitation.

The fine powder explodes in a flash of thick blue smoke, flowing through the air straight up into Derek's nostrils, flooding his head with its saccharine, chamomile-like scent. His pulse explodes and his skin breaks out into a sweat and the last thing he remembers is the room going dark.

 

* * *

 

Derek wakes up on his side, head rested on his bicep, groggy and mouth dry, the feeling of it making him nauseous. He barks a cough; a horrid, deep, bronchial noise erupting from his lungs like thunder. He's never made that noise before, but he hacks until a glob of _something_ is spat onto the floor, the same color blue of the Ibogaine smoke.

Examining the strange colored substance, he realizes what he's done. Sometime during his unconsciousness, his hand left the circle.

He yanks it back inside the circle, within the safety of his lap, and draws in deep calming breaths with eyes closed.

"Um, I don't think you're supposed to fall asleep during your meditation period, but hey, don't take my word for it."

Derek's eyes shoot open at the voice, startled by the intrusion because one, that is a voice he recognizes not to be Lydia's or Scott's, and second because no one is allowed in the room while the meditation period is in progress.

"Woah, hey dude, don't look so freaked. It's just me."

_'just me.'_

Just me, as in _Stiles._

Derek slams his eyes shut with a deep frown. _You're not real_ , he chants to himself in his head, hoping desperately to silence the mirage.

"I'm pretty sure I'm real," Stiles laughs, sparing a glance down at himself. "If I'm not real then you're not real, big guy and have you looked around? I don't think the sun has risen in… what? Three days? Two? Or maybe… four? Nothing's real here as far as you know. Welcome to the twilight zone."

Derek finds himself cracking his eyes open with a scowl because _fuck_. He's pretty sure he fucked up _big time_ , either by passing out or letting his hand loll out of the circle, but the damage is done.

The figment talks exactly like Stiles, has his exact mannerisms and looks exactly like him when he'd been healthy. His red hoodie is loose and puffy over his lithe body, legs long and delicious, skin smooth and clear except for its moles, peachy and pale and warm just like his eyes, cheeks full.

Stiles grins lasciviously, eyes raking up and down Derek's form.

"You don't look so bad yourself, though you look like you could use a little more sleep."

Derek cracks a sad smile. "Circadian rhythm is hard to stick to when there's no more rhythm."

Stiles' smile mirrors Derek's. "I feel that. I mean have you met me? Time loses all meaning when Wikipedia calls and suddenly it's 4 A.M. and you have school in three hours and only half of your homework is done."

"I can't believe I had sex with someone still in high school," Derek groans.

Stiles cracks a wide, earth-shattering smile and belly laughs; it's gorgeous. "Shut up! I'm eighteen in literally like a week—of regular earth time. So, shut your mouth. I can't believe you had sex with me for _other_ reasons. More like, I'm pretty sure you've threatened to kill me at least ten times and actually meant it, so it can't be my personality. My looks are off the table because," he waves his hand down his body swiftly, "well, you've seen me, so you know. Yet you wanted all up on _this._ "

Derek's eyes roll towards the ceiling as if he can't believe he's having this conversation with this kid. This kid that isn't even really _this kid_. Why is he talking to a mirage when he's supposed to be meditating? Fucking ridiculous.

"No, really!" Stiles insists. "I truly don't understand why you wanted me, and you definitely did because _wooh_! A plus, honestly. That was some great sex. Intense, but great. You were all in. Pun intended." He winks.

"I'm not discussing this with a delusion."

"Why do you think I'm a delusion?" Stiles' face grows serious as he straightens his back, hands coming to rest in his lap as he stares Derek down. It's not threatening, but a severe change of atmosphere.

Derek can feel something stirring in his chest above the heaviness and he's not sure if it's longing or something else entirely. He desperately wants the thing in front of him to be real, but the logical part of his brain tells him it can't be.

"Stiles is downstairs, in a circle he physically can't leave," Derek answers, unable to meet the boy's eyes. Stiles shakes his head in disagreement. "And I fucked up. I passed out, I left the circle... or a part of me did. You're just some weird side effect."

Stiles throws a hand to his heart and scoffs sardonically. "I'm _wounded._ "

Derek sits back up in a cross-legged position, resting his hands in his lap mirroring Stiles and closes his eyes. "Go away," he whispers, more to himself than to Stiles, "I have to meditate."

"Well, now you're just trying to hurt my feelings."

"Go away," he repeats, softer.

"Am I distracting you? Maybe I should be someone else." Stiles' voice melts to something completely different mid-sentence, something feminine, something familiar.

Derek opens his eyes to Laura instead of Stiles, hair long and dark and curled, pinned away from her face, a sly pink smile aimed at him like a knife. He feels something within himself shatter and the weight in his chest is suddenly so much heavier.

_He knew it couldn't possibly be Stiles._

"I never said I was really _Stiles,_ just that I was real," Laura tries to coalesce. Derek flinches at the sound of her voice. "Aw," she pouts, "what's the matter? Upset that you don't want to suck face with me anymore?"

Derek keeps his eyes fixed on the floor between them caught in a wan expression, unblinking. This emotional rollercoaster is giving him _actual fucking vertigo._ Watching out of his peripheral vision, Laura morphing back into Stiles does nothing to quell the hurt.

"Oh my _God,_ " Stiles groans, his ( _its_?) demeanor quickly shifting from warm and nostalgic into something more malicious. "Such a little maudlin. We get it, you're a big, morose cauldron of emotions. You really ought to purge your feelings before your martyrdom takes a more literal turn." Stiles stands and strolls over the symbols on the floor towards Derek, managing to magically not smudge any chalk at all, only confirming his suspicions of being a mirage. Lifting a hand towards Derek and he gently runs it over his hirsute cheek with a mock frown. "Poor, pathetic, Derek."

Derek flinches away from the touch. "Who are you?"

He's fairly sure this isn't the work of the shedim, it doesn't feel as calculated or malevolent. It's a difference demeanor entirely.

Stiles pauses at the question as if he wasn't expecting it, but the hesitation is soon replaced with an unsettling simper. "Not a who, but a what." Stiles pauses, but says finally, "Results."

"What?" He blinks at Stiles who's smile remains plastered on his face like a crack in pure white marble.

Stiles doesn't answer.

Frustrated with the cryptic answer, Derek tilts his head back and sighs. _What does that even mean?_

Resigned, Derek closes his eyes again and repeats himself one more time. "Go. Away. I need to concentrate."

In a pleasantly surprising turn of events, silence follows the request, but only for a few seconds. Just when Derek thinks he's succeeded in commanding the faux-Stiles into silent submission, Stiles' loud, furious voice is piercing his eardrum and on instinct, he clamps both hands over his ears.

"Why?! _Why_ do you need to concentrate, Derek?!" Stiles hollers straight into Derek's ear.

"To shift consciousness!" Derek yells back, body curling, hands still pressed against his ears. Everything is so loud then, Stiles' voice, but also the empty space between his words as if existence was suddenly too much. He can feel his skull rattling beneath his skin, his bones cooking through his flesh, his muscles seizing. He howls in agony.

And then, as quickly as it began, it stops.

The world is quiet again and Derek's body is his own.

Curiosity is what makes Derek peel his eyes open.

Stiles is kneeling a few feet away from him, in the center of a large symbol inside the circle. He's wearing another smile, however, this smile is less cruel and more playfully sly, as if to say _'I know something you don't know.'_

"Are you sure your consciousness hasn't already shifted?" Stiles asks with a tilt of his head. It sounds more rhetorical than just a simple inquiry.

Before Derek has a chance to answer, Stiles raises his hands and snaps both his fingers. Within an instant, Stiles vanishes, but that's not the only thing that changes.

The room he's in, the one that was once a soft shade of blue, is now spotted with black mold and gray from dust. It's as though the room had been sitting for years without care, just deteriorating. Black goo, similar to what Stiles had thrown up in his loft, oozes from the floorboards like the house itself is alive and breathing.

He stands when a glob of the unctuous blackness smears across his knee when it bubbles up from the floor.

It's like he's entered an entirely new place.

 _This_ is what 'Stiles' meant when he'd said he was 'results'. _He_ was the shift in consciousness _. He_ catalyzed the departure into another plane of existence.

He'll have to remember to ask Deaton about magical residue becoming sentient if he gets out of this alive.

He figures it's safe to exit the circle, so, albeit hesitantly, he places one foot outside of the circle and waits skittishly for a moment before he takes one more step until no part of him is protected by the circle any longer. He stops just outside the circle and takes a moment to breathe.

Derek isn't sure what he was expecting, but at this point, he wouldn’t be surprised if the entire house imploded by him stepping outside his circle.

Just when he thinks he's safe, the peaceful silence is interrupted by what sounds like children's laughter just outside the door, followed by a series of little footsteps rushing down the hall. Derek warily cracks the door open to the hallway, but no children are to be seen. Just a dark, empty hallway.

Lydia's and Scott's voices float up the staircase and into the hallway, talking about ghosts and hauntings and things Derek hasn't thought about since childhood. He makes his way downstairs to join them after redressing but is startled halfway down the stairs when an arrhythmic knocking sound erupts from the wall parallel to him. He raises an eyebrow at the sheer impossibility of it. No one is there, he's standing right next to it, and the layout of the house makes it so there is no room on the other side. The sound had to have come from _inside_ the wall.

The rest of the house is in no better shape than his meditation room. The black substance that oozed from the floor also seeps out from the ventilation system; the liquid drips down and covers the wall like a thick coat of paint. Black mold grows in dense patches at the corners of every room, the wallpaper discolored and rotting.

When he enters the kitchen Lydia and Scott who are sat at the table pause in their conversation to inspect Derek.

"Jesus, what took you so long?" Lydia complains. "You were in there for hours."

Derek takes one long sweeping glance around the kitchen, simultaneously disgusted and awestruck at his new surroundings. "Do you guys see… what I see?" he mumbles as his eyes settle back on them.

Lydia nods curtly, accompanied by Scott's soft, "Yeah."

"I think we're in some sort of underworld," Lydia grumbles, frowning down at the grimoire that's open in front of her and angrily flipping through a few pages, "but I can't find anything about it."

"Underworld?"

"Since this book doesn't have any information, I'm going off of a hunch, but from what I've seen and heard since finishing my meditation I would say it seems like we're surrounded by spirits or entities or whatever you want to call them."

"Except we aren't experiencing the same weird stuff or seeing the same people," Scott chimes in. "The mold on the walls and the goo and dust and stuff? You see that right?" Derek nods, perplexed. "Yeah, we got that too, except Lydia and I… it's hard to explain." He looks beseechingly at Lydia to explain for him.

She purses her lips before continuing where Scott left off.

"There's something off about our perceptions of this place," she explains. "We're in the same place but segregated somehow, like we're all in the same room but dividers are separating us, so our perceptions are a bit different. When I hear someone talking through the walls, Scott doesn't, but when Scott sees shadowy figures walk past the doorway, I don't. Understand?"

"I understand but why would it be different for each of us? That doesn't make sense."

Lydia holds up a finger and flips a few pages back until she reaches the page she was looking for. "Actually it does. We have to shift consciousness to get here, which means our perception is inherently linked to our arrival. Our subconscious molds the world around us so we can understand it."

Scott snorts and adds, "Like in interstellar when Cooper travels to the fifth dimension and they make infinite time conceivable to him by turning it into his daughter's bedroom."

Lydia's rests her chin on her hand, rolling her eyes and looking completely put out. "That is the _only_ way I could get him to understand."

Derek finds his own eyes rolling before he's startled by another noise; this time it's a voice, soft, warm, and close. Hot breath fans out over his ear just before he hears, "He's a little thick between the ears, huh?"

He whips toward the direction of the voice, undeniably Stiles', and finds him leaning casually up against the far kitchen counter a few feet away. He's all stretched out, long, loose, and insouciant. Derek glares.

"Are you okay, dude?"

Derek turns again, surprised at having so quickly forgotten the other two people in the room.

The concern on Lydia's face turns to intrigue and she leans in towards him with her weight braced on her elbow. "Are you seeing something? Now?"

He turns to Stiles who grimaces in her direction.

It's so strange to see someone who looks exactly like Stiles treat the people he cares most about like they were miles beneath him, despite having a Stiles shaped demon one floor below him.

Stiles turns back to Derek with a _what-quaint-doltish-friends-you-have_ look in his eyes. Derek's seen the patronizing reaction to Scott before, but never Lydia.

"She's wrong by the way," Stiles says matter-of-factly. "You're not in an underworld and no one here is a ghost because what dwells here has never walked the earth."

"Derek!" Lydia shouts. " _Hello?_ What is wrong with you? Are you having like, an ADD moment or something?"

"You can tell them," Stiles drawls casually, picking at his nailbeds apathetically despite Lydia's subtle jab at Stiles, "tell them you can see me, but they'll think you're being controlled by that thing down there. They won't trust you anymore and the whole process will take three times as long to complete because they'll be babysitting you." He pauses to sniff in their direction before zeroing his attention back in on his dainty fingers. "You know I'm right. It's your risk to take."

Lydia and Scott are beginning to seem worried as they stare at Derek expectantly.

"I um-" Derek clears his throat.

"It's not lying, just selective truth," Stiles reasons. "Besides, you're all going to be seeing the same things soon. Princess Peach will make sure of that."

He doesn't know what that  _means._

"I'm just tired," Derek shrugs, training his eyes on the wall behind Scott. He doesn't even think of risking a glance in the direction where Stiles is sprawled over the counter looking entirely too pleased with himself.

Lydia's eyes narrow almost imperceptibly and Derek can tell that she's planning on cornering him about this later. He's just thankful it won't be now, not in front of Scott, not without some sort of explanation ready. She flips her long wavy hair behind her shoulders and scowls down at the book in favor of boring holes into Derek's twitchy form.

"Have you guys read about the unification process yet?"

 

* * *

 

The basement air is like dry, cold static.

The three of them take their places in their own individual circle surrounding the demon in their respective directions. Lydia sets up, lighting extra candles, placing the supplies for whatever step of the ritual they are about to perform: a knife, three silver-rimmed glasses, and a hemp rope.

Stiles is still skin and bone, to no one's surprise. Thankfully, Stiles' spark must've been included in the trade for their supernatural abilities because he's stopped losing weight and dehydrating. He may not be getting any better, but at least he's not getting any worse. These are the things that keep Derek from going mad when he hasn't seen daylight in what he assumes is close to a week.

The boy is still too small though, too fragile. The sharp lines of his skeleton protrude from his papery-thin white skin like a rubber band that's stretched so thin it could snap at any moment. Dark shadows are cast under every sharp line. He's difficult to look at—to take in his hollow frame that looks as if he is literally wasting away, sunken red eyes, the death camp cheekbones.

They lock eyes as Derek takes his seat; the golden hue is spiteful, cunning, burning with intelligence as they follow every movement Derek makes.

"Derek," Lydia calls, somewhere out in the distance.

With Stiles' back turned to the girl, a sickening Cheshire grin cracks his face like broken porcelain as if to say, _'I know something you don't know.'_ He arches his neck towards the wolf alluringly, only to crack it and smile at the flinch Derek succumbs to.

Strangely, Stiles' skin seems almost translucent at times, black scales shimmering underneath and disappearing completely, only to appear somewhere else on his body. His eyes flicker between their natural whiskey color and two endless black voids, seemingly out of the shedim's control. With having shifted consciousness, Stiles seems to be trapped between two worlds, this one, and the living, and now Derek can take glimpses at what malevolent being lies beneath that perfect skin.

"Derek!"

His awareness snaps back to Lydia hitting the grimoire against the ground with a thwack. She's glaring daggers at him, but Derek can't help but lose his focus again as his Stiles, not the real one but the mirage, appears from behind her and cackles. Scott peers at him with concern.

"What is _going on_ with you?" Lydia demands.

Derek shakes his head as if to clear it of all the beautiful faces that don't match up with the right person. It doesn't work. There are still two Stileses in the room and neither of them is _Stiles._

"I'm just trying to remember what I read about the unification process," Derek attempts to mitigate. Lydia only glares at him in return before letting out a slow, controlled breath.

"It will merge our perceptions to strengthen our defense. It will also allow me to see whatever you've been seeing." The way she says it sounds vaguely like a threat, her eyes searching the room as if she might catch a glimpse even now.

Scott's left glancing between the two of them, confused.

The demon's eyes are still locked on Derek with a bright grin, and though he can't see the mirage, he does feel another set of eyes on his back as if every slight movement he makes is documented.

Lydia gives him one more scrutinizing once-over and seems to accept that whatever Derek is thinking won't be made public anytime soon. "Watch," she says, grabbing the supplies and systematically placing them in front of her. She swiftly ties the hemp rope just above her elbow tight enough for her skin to puff around it. Taking the knife, she presses the tip of the blade into the underside of her forearm, letting a thick line of blood empty into the glasses until each is a third of the way full.

She unties the elastic tube from her arm and the bleeding slows but doesn't stop completely. Nudging the supplies in Derek's direction, she says, "Your turn."

When Derek's finished wrapping the tube around his arm, blade poised at his radial artery, Derek makes the mistake of matching the gaze of the shedim again.

This time, it speaks.

"Do you really think this is going to work?" it asks, voice velvety smooth and soft, quiet and threatening. The demon tilts its head at Derek and raises an inquisitive eyebrow at him, a complimenting amused smile washing over its face.

"Derek focus," Lydia has to remind him, "don't pay attention to it. You'll only play into its game."

At the admonishment, Derek readjusts the blade against his skin and presses in until he feels his skin break and the hot red liquid flow down into the cups.

"Game?"

Lydia ignores it, eyes sharp and focused on Scott as he's handed the knife and rope.

"You're all going to spend eternity here because some sham of a doctor gave you a novice spell. You don't know what you're doing. Stiles is rotting in hell and you're sitting over there singing songs and drawing pictures, cutting yourselves like pathetic suicidal little teenagers. You're going to rot too."

Scott closes his eyes and inhales deeply, drawing from some sort of calm he has stored within him.

The demon's calm, however, seems to run out as soon as the glasses are filled completely with all three of their bloodlettings.

It hops up onto its haunches furiously like an animal ready to spring, eyes bleeding into two empty black voids. It spins around and crowds itself to the edge of the circle where Lydia is, wild-eyed and never crossing the boundary.

Lydia's face is as smooth and blank as stone, but her hands tremble when Scott passes her the supplies. She pushes one glass back into Scott's hand, shaking her head, before passing Derek the other.

Something seems to click in Scott's mind and he stares at the thick swirling liquid in his glass incredulously. His skin goes two shades paler.

"Drink it," Lydia orders, face stern before she quaffs the entire drink in one go and sets down the glass. Her jaw sets and her eyes unfocused, and Derek can tell she's fighting every cell in her body not to throw it up. Scott's looking at her as if she's grown a second head, but Derek's vaguely impressed.

The demon seethes.

Her eyes slide to Derek with determination. "Drink it." Then she looks at Scott. "Don't throw up."

Derek holds the glass up under his nose and takes a sniff and nearly gags at the offensive odor itself. Even with a human nose, he can smell the oily warmth of it, the iron, the sickening richness thickening it up like soup. He would really, truly, rather do a hundred other things, but he knows if there were another option than drinking a mixture of someone else's blood, Lydia would have found it. So, for Stiles, he chugs it down and almost breaks the glass when he finishes with a sputtering cough.

"Do. Not. Throw. Up. Or we'll have to do this again tomorrow."

He wasn't going to, but he needs a moment to regroup.

He can taste the blood still as it sticks to the inside of his mouth and throat like grease.

All of the mirth has seeped out of Stiles' face, and the mirage is nowhere to be seen. Ire has filled its eyes as it turns from Derek to Scott. Something about the shift in energy tells Derek that they're doing something right.

Scott seems to pick up on this, too.

He deliberately locks eyes with the demon and pours the blood down his throat.

The moment the glass leaves Scott's lips, he curls over himself and gags violently. The demon's eyes light up like it's Christmas morning with a smile to match.

"Scott, hold it-"

But before Lydia can finish, thick splatters of carmine hit the floor and Scott's heaving so hard a few blood vessels in his cheek pop.

"Shit!" Lydia snaps, fishing around in her pockets for chalk. Stiles falls back onto his bottom and hiccoughs a hysterical laugh.

"What's happening?" Derek asks as he watches Lydia flounder around for her chalk while simultaneously flipping through the grimoire for the correct page. Scott's just beginning to recover from his vomiting, sitting back and wiping his mouth with the backside of his hand.

"You fucked up," the demon says simply with a wry grin and a shrug of the shoulders. "She has the seal the circles before anything else big and bad hears you and decides to treat this as an entrance to fuck with the living. Classic."

Lydia finally fishes a stick of chalk from the bottom of her pocket and places it behind her ear while she finishes her pursuit in the grimoire hastily.

"I don't know why you even bother, Lydia. You're almost intelligent—you know that life is just luck. You know the statistics of everyone getting out of this alive."

Derek has never seen Lydia so affected by a string of words.

The entirety of her seems to pause and she lets her eyes flutter closed and exhales deeply.

"Distract him please," she begs, eyes focused on the page in front of her, hands shaking.

The demon whips around to face Derek and sits up on his knees with a razor-sharp smile.

"Yes, Derek, distract me." It teases, one hand under its shirt to reveal a valley of deathly pale skin stretched over ribs, bruises littering his sides. "We all know how good you are at that."

Derek's skin suddenly feels too thin, like the slightest prick would cause him to disintegrate and bleed out on the floor.

He feels Scott's gaze switch to him before he sees it, but when he does he sees a small frown of confusion teetering on the edge of suspicion.

"What is he talking about?"

Derek can hear the rough slide of Lydia's chalk against the concrete floor, but it's a thousand miles away.

The demon feigns surprise, gasping theatrically. "Scott doesn't know? Good Ol' never-does-anything-wrong Scotty? Don't tell me you've been keeping _secrets._ "

Derek feels his stomach plummet and he drops his gaze from Scott and Stiles to the floor, praying that Lydia finishes quickly.

"Derek?" he hears Scott ask, voice small.

The demon tilts his head to the side, ash-black eyes laid expectantly on Derek. Everything in its demeanor is mocking. It waits a moment for Derek to answer, but when he doesn't, it throws its head back and groans.

"God, you're all so _boring._ Fine, since we can all agree that I am a better conversationalist than Fido over here, I'll cut right to the chase." It turns so it's fully facing Scott and sits up straight.

Stretching it's long bony fingers out like a tarantula spreading its legs, it slithers its hand up and taps Stiles' lips mischievously.

"Derek touched me here," it says quietly, blatantly taking pleasure from the way Scott's eyes bulge. The hand slithers down to splay across Stiles' neck. "And here." The hand slides down further, trailing a few fingertips along pronounced collarbones and the square of his pecks, his nipples. " _Here…_ "

Off to the side, Derek hears the grind of Lydia's chalk cease and the mumbling of an incantation.

The hand slides down Stiles' stomach lasciviously. "Here."

Scott looks like he's about two seconds away from throwing up again.

Finally, the hand stops at Stiles' crotch. "Derek especially touched me here. Shall I go on?"

Scott shakes his head, mouth agape, staring at the floor in shock. "You slept with Stiles?" he asks, almost unbelieving.

"Not quite," the demon answers for him. His head swivels slowly towards Derek, face nearly unrecognizable in its malevolence. "How does it feel, Derek? Being a rapist?"

" _What?!_ " Scott squawks, shooting Derek a look of pure, unadulterated hatred.

Derek's head snaps up to face it, _him,_ what looks like him at least. He forgets how to breathe.

Lydia's voice chokes over the words of her enchantments, but she doesn't stop.

Derek feels the blood drain from his face. "No, I…" he croaks, his voice barely audible.

It feigns remorse with a twisted expression. "'Fraid so."

"But he…"

"Nope. All me. Stiles was only present enough to experience it, he never had a choice."

Derek feels his insides wither, his blood boil. He doesn't know whether he wants to claw his own skin off or just shrivel up and die.

"…That wasn't him?"

This thing, wearing Stiles as a mask, it giggles. _Like actually giggles._

"Oh, Derek. Did you honestly think he'd want you? He's been in love with the same girl since he even knew what girls were, why would that change for a monumental fuckup like you?" It pauses, a thought running through its mind that it obviously finds delightful. "Reminds me a bit of Kate, now that I think of it."

This time Scott's animosity is focused on the shedim and if he still had his werewolf abilities, there's no doubt in Derek's mind he'd be shifted.

"Derek, don't listen to it. How could you have known?"

Derek digs his fingernails into his arm and feels the wound on his arm open up again, feeling the warmth trickle down over his skin and onto the floor. He hasn't wanted to die this much since he'd indirectly killed his parents.

As if it had heard the thought, the demon snorts, but doesn't comment. "Remember, Stiles is still underaged. Even if he had consented, Derek is still a sexual predator." It seems to contemplate this and laughs gleefully. "I guess that makes you, what? A child rapist? Because Stiles did _not_ want what you were _oh so willing_ to give. I could feel him inside, crying to get out, to be put out of his misery. _He never wanted you, Derek._ "

Warm breath caresses the shell of his ear and he jumps at the sudden heat on his chilled skin. It's Stiles, the mirage, but at this moment he is as real as the thing in front of him.

"It's true," Stiles laments softly.

Derek feels his breathing go shallow, his vision blurs.

The demon lets out a burdened sigh. "You can talk to him if you absolutely _have_ to."

Scott's frantically trying to get Lydia's attention, but she's still scrawling sigils on the floor and flying through incantations.

It throws itself backward until Stiles' spine hits the floor with a bounce, its head rolling back causing its neck to arch and bulge. It hisses, its tongue flicking out like a snake before he begins to violently seize and then abruptly stop. Then… silence.

Derek tries to focus his eyes, but the oncoming panic is beginning to be excessive. He can't shift, he can't smell, he can't hear a lie. Why can't he hear anything? Why is his sense of smell so muted? He can barely see bright irises the color of honey, soft and pretty. They look frightened.

"Derek?" the demon breathes. It sounds just like how Stiles would sound, low and curious. Derek can barely keep a grip on reality. It looks down at the white lines of chalk drawn on the floor, encasing it. It lifts a hand and tests the boundary, but the air shimmers and it snatches its hand back as if it had been burned. Stiles looks back to Derek in question. "What's going on?"

"Stiles-" is all Derek can manage to choke out before his panic attack hits him fully, constricting his chest and closing his throat.

"Derek… you're freaking me out here, man. Why am I trapped inside this circle?" Its breathing grows more unsteady with every intake. A look of realization crosses through its eyes and it looks at Derek with despair. "Oh my god… are you… Derek, _please! Not again!_ "

Derek can’t bear sitting there any longer, but he knows he can't leave the circle. All he can hear is Stiles. Stiles' trembling frightened voice asking him _why he hurt him._

Derek places his hands on his ears and ducks down until his face is in between his knees. He can't. _He can't. He. Can't._

"I didn't want that…" it whispers, voice clear as a bell like it could reach into his mind and whisper its sweet nothings. "It hurt so much, but you wouldn't stop. Why did you do that?"

He can't _breathe._

And then there are manicured fingers running through his hair and snapping in his line of sight. His focus returns to him marginally and he hears Stiles' cackling in the background, but mostly he hears Lydia calling his name.

"Derek. Derek, can you hear me? The circles are sealed, we need to go. Let's go."

She still sounds miles away, but he can feel her arms snaking under his armpit, Scott's under the other, hefting him up with exhausted grunts. He's able to stand on his own, but he's wobbly and his breathing is still uneven, vision still blurry from tears.

"Derek," Lydia says again, louder than the fierce, unfeeling laughter behind her. Her fingers snap in front of his eyes and he gains enough focus again to be guided out of the basement and up the stairs.

Before the door to the basement closes, he hears the soft, almost fond voice say, "So gullible," before the door is slammed shut and he is deposited in a chair in the living room.

He can hear the grind and snap of a match being lit, a few spots of light following Scott's form as he trails around the room seeming shaken. He's still not entirely sure how to breathe, so he grips the rheumatisms on the corners of the armrests like they're the only thing keeping him from losing control.

Two soft hands caress both of his cheeks, big concerned green eyes gleam, pink pouty lips purse. Lydia.

"Derek? Derek, stay with me," she says to him. He blinks a few times and barely registers that blood is smeared all down his arm and she's pressing something soft into the open wound firmly. He can feel his hands bruising from the grip he has on the chair. He's never felt so awful, so fragile, so flawed and human. "Come back to me," she says, snapping her perfectly manicured nails in front of his face.

"Is he having a panic attack?" Scott asks from somewhere in the room.

He doesn't hear her answer, but he's pretty sure he is. He hasn't had one in years and he doesn't know how to handle it without his wolf. He must mumble as much because soon Lydia's free hand is running over his.

"Hey, hey," Lydia soothes, "we're under a cloaking spell remember? You can't shift until the ritual is over, but you'll get it back."

Derek gains enough composure to nod, and it's as though the entire room sighs.

Lydia takes this as her opportunity to lift his chin so he's forced to look into eyes as bright as fire.

"You are not a rapist," she declares.

"I am," he laments.

"No. You aren't," she argues. "Even if all of that is true, even if you had sex with him, _with just his body_ , how could you _possibly_ know? That wasn't Stiles in there, none of that was. Stiles loves you and he would never say any of that. That thing in there inside him? That thing is the rapist. It took advantage of _you and Stiles_. Do you understand that?"

Scott appears from wherever he'd wandered off to, to nod emphatically. "Well-I-no? I mean…" Scott splutters, walking briskly up to kneel beside Lydia to best remain in Derek's line of sight. "I didn't mean no, I just didn't _know_ that you guys… felt that way about each other? Like at all. Um…" Guilt flashes across his face and he slumps. "If I had been paying more attention to Stiles maybe I would have seen it."

Lydia huffs and Derek just barely catches her rolling her eyes at Scott. "How do we know how long this thing has been infesting Stiles anyway?" she asks impatiently.

All three of them nearly jump out of their skins when the T.V. flashes on, the loud static piercing through a long ongoing quiet. The room is cast in an electric blue light before the static burns and flashes, and a picture appears on the screen. Gene Kelly's got a dopey grin, an umbrella at his side, and he's splashing playfully through street puddles, singing that old song Derek knows so well. _Singing in the Rain._

"That's weird," he hears Scott say, but he's too busy trying not to be consumed by… well, everything.

Memories of sitting curled up on the floor with Stiles' feet in his lap and a plate of hot food in his lap. He remembers how warm, how normal and _just lovely_ those moments with Stiles were.

They're all ruined, now.

Now that he knows that they were all spent with this _thing_ instead of Stiles.

Derek can't feel his hands anymore, let alone breathe.

"Woah, Derek? Are you okay?"

"How is that even possible?" Lydia mutters, eyes glued to the whimsical scene on the screen turned somewhat macabre under the circumstances, mercilessly taunting Derek. She turns back to him, a frown etched into her features. "Does that movie mean anything to you?"

_Not anymore._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LOL SYKE YOU AINT GETTING SHIT  
> 

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so I rewrote this because I super wasn't vibing the first version. I had an idea and rushed into it without fleshing out the plot or anything and I was just avoiding continuing it ??? So here u go I think this is better.  
> :)


End file.
